You're Awful, I Love You
by Crashing the Mobius Strip
Summary: Castiel is dead and Dean Winchester is just beginning to come to terms with that fact. Then someone unexpected from a future long past turns up in his life, threatening to tear his world apart and force him to acknowledge certain things that he had buried years ago. They don't know how he got there or what they're gonna do with him, but he's starting to piss everyone off. [Destiel]
1. Chapter 1

Over the past few years, he had certainly woken to find himself in a number of strange situations and awkward places. It was not strictly uncommon, either, to find himself sprawled haphazardly on some floor or another, covered in who knew what with only a vague recollection of recent events and a splitting headache. He felt sore all over, his mind hazy – though that could simply be on account of the opiates, or perhaps the absinthe. It all sort of blurred at the edges after a while.

What made this particular situation curiously unique, however, was the mobile form of one Bobby Singer looming over his aching, blood spattered self as he became intimate with the threadbare faux-persian rug. The muzzle of the old hunter's shotgun in his ear was also something to contemplate.

"You got about ten seconds to explain who you are and what the hell you're doin' on my living room floor before I turn your melon into a fruit bowl," the gruff and ever lovable Bobby Singer growled through his rust coloured beard.

"Bobby," the bemused man laying face down on the floor greeted. "I didn't know you felt that way. I'm touched. Did you redecorate?"

There was a long moment in which Bobby felt as though he'd been swallowed up into the Twilight Zone. The voice was familiar, even if the tone was a little off, and the face that turned toward him was recognizable if a bit more gaunt and pale than he remembered. The figure laying prone in the middle of the floor was covered in mud and blood and an insurmountable amount of crap Bobby didn't want to think about. He was dressed like he'd just dropped out of the middle of some post-Apocalyptic resistance movement in a ratty jacket , right down to the M-16 rifle slung across his back by a well worn strap.

Against his better judgement, Bobby took a step back from the intruder.

"Keep your hands in plain sight and get on your knees," he ordered, keeping the gun trained on the intruder's head.

The rumpled figure on the floor smirked, then pushed himself up with a groan, one arm slung across his bloodied chest as he sank back onto his heels, breath slightly labored in pain, face pallid aside from where a nasty looking bruise covered the entirety of the left side, cherry red over his cheekbone and the white of his left eye bloodstained. There was a gash across the front of his faded blue button down that caught the right lapel of his ratty green jacket and the skin beneath it likely matched, given all the blood.

The most unsettling thing to Bobby Singer was that yes, he did recognize this wreck of a man. The unruly dark hair that could be black or dark brown depending on the lighting, now longish and hanging limp in his blue eyes, matted to his brow with sweat and blood, the square, stubbled jaw; there was no mistaking the son of a bitch. No matter how messed up he looked, shoulders slumped and stoned, shit-eating grin splitting over his teeth, eyebrows raised sardonically above narcotic-glazed eyes, Bobby couldn't dismiss what he was looking at.

"..._Cas_?"

A low chuckle bubbled out of the other man's chest as he staggered to his feet, stumbling to one side and threatening to fall over. Damn he was out of it. He wondered, briefly, if he might not have overshot his usual dosage – it had been a long, distressing night, after the strategy Dean had presented. He would do it, though. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for Dean.

Bobby watched, baffled as the angel teetered and shuffled in a slow circle, seeming amused by his surroundings. The old hunter didn't see much funny about this, though; the last he'd seen featherbrain, the idjit had just released thousands of souls back into Purgatory before being possessed by goddamn Leviathan and exploding in the reservoir, leaving just a dirty, goo and bloodstained trench coat behind.

That had been months ago.

And now here he was again, real as life in Bobby's own house as though he'd just returned from a hillbilly rainbow gathering, stoned out of his mind and tore the hell up, collapsing halfway to the front door in a heap of limbs and gun metal and tattered cloth and blood.

"Balls," Bobby sighed, propping the shotgun against the wall and picking up the phone on his tome-littered desk.

"Hey, Bobby," the voice on the other end of the line answered on the second ring, much to Bobby's relief.

"Sam," the elder man greeted in return. "I got a bit of a situation here. You boys better get over here quick."

There was a long moment in which Bobby could hear the murmured conversation between the two Winchesters before Sam was in his ear again.

"We're about nine hours out if we drive straight through. Bobby," Sam paused, the concern heavy in his tone. "What's going on?"

"Beats the hell outta me," Bobby admitted with no small measure of exasperation. "But I've someone's supposed to be _dead _passed out on the floor ten feet from me."

"Who?"

Bobby sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I don't wanna get anyone's hopes up," he rumbled, casting a glance back at the disheveled heap on the threshold, "I still gotta run the usual gauntlet, but he's got about as much of a track record for _stayin' _dead as you two idjits."

"...We'll be there as soon as we can."

The line went dead and Bobby placed the handset back in its cradle on the desk, raising his hat enough to brush the sparse hair back on his head before replacing it. He cautiously ambled over to the 'fallen' angel and, yep. Feathers was down for the count in a puddle of drool and blood on the floor.

"Figures _I _get stuck with the shitty jobs," he muttered as he braced himself, knees bent, and hauled the unconscious angel to the sunk-in couch a few feet away, removing the assault rifle and setting it on the desk.

Once arranged in a more or less comfortable position, Bobby took a look over him. The wound in the man's chest was ragged and angry looking, three parallel gashes that ran from his right collar bone to his left pectoral- oozing, but not bleeding too profusely. He did what he could to clean it with a healthy wash of holy water and covered the wound loosely in gauze, then ran the usual tests of silver, iron, salt and borax to be certain it wasn't some ooglie doppelgänger.

The next nine hours were going to be some of the longest Bobby Singer had ever had to endure as he waited for Sam and Dean to get their asses up here.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sam flipped the phone shut and stared at his brother from the passenger seat. The tension in the conversation with Bobby had set Dean on edge from the one side he heard of it, and Sam's sudden silence wasn't helping.

"Well," Dean demanded, glancing at his brother across the seat. "What did he say?"

Sam sighed, jaw squared as he pointedly did not look at Dean, keeping his eyes forward out the rain-spattered windshield onto the dark road ahead.

Dean tightened his grip at the reticence, prepared to repeat himself when Sam finally spoke up.

"I think it's Cas," Sam ventured cautiously. "I think Cas is at Bobby's. He's..."

Dean turned to stare for a moment at his brother, eyes wide and incredulous, almost forgetting he was behind the wheel of a vehicle travelling in excess of seventy miles per hour down a dark, wet highway. "No," he eschewed, disbelieving. "No fuckin' way. Sam, you... Just _no._"

"We have to go, Dean," Sam insisted. "Whoever it is, Bobby wants us back at his place. This is big, whatever it is."

Dean returned his glare to the road, catching the turn around up ahead and hitting the brakes as he jerked the wheel, the Impala jack-knifing on the patch of dirt connecting North and South and earning a yelp of surprise from the younger Winchester.

"Jesus, Dean!"

Dean ignored the objurgation from his co-pilot, gunning the engine up just a little closer to eighty.


	2. Chapter 2

It was just after dawn when the Impala pulled up at Singer Salvage, the heavy rains turning the driveway into a swamp of dust and dirt as the tires squelched to a stop. Dean didn't miss a beat as he jerked the keys out of the ignition and threw open the door in a single, fluid motion, striding toward the front door with a sense of purpose.

The entire drive had been all but silent, any conversation Sam tried to strike up with his older brother cut off with terse, one-word responses, if they garnered any response at all. All the clues that Bobby had given in their brief conversation had pointed toward the impossible, but that's what they were good at. Both of the Winchester brothers had experienced their fair share of impossible throughout the years, so it didn't really ever come as much of a surprise any more when it happened.

Besides, really, was it such a stretch? They had never found a body after Castiel had gone into the water, just the trench coat that Sam knew Dean still kept in the trunk- a memento of another fallen comrade safely nestled away where it was close, but not a constant reminder of the loss.

Dean pushed through the door yards ahead of his brother, barking out the announcement of his arrival. He may be anxious, but he wasn't in a hurry to get shot for barging in on the paranoid old guy. Sam was at his heel a moment later, lingering in the entryway to the living room-slash-library.

Bobby Singer was perched at his desk, coffee mug in his hand as he nodded in greeting to the young hunter. Dean's eyes were immediately drawn to the lump on the couch beneath the thready old comforter, a lump forming in his throat as he tried to push down the hope that what Sam had theorized might be true.

His eyes flicked back to Bobby as the old man sighed. "He dropped in outta nowhere last night, right before I called you," he explained. "Son of a bitch was torn up and bloody, armed to the fuckin' teeth."

"What is this, Bobby?" Dean didn't want twenty questions. He didn't want to beat around the bush. He set his feet, folding his arms across his chest, inclining his head toward the closest thing he had to a father, his expression demanding a solid answer.

"Well," Bobby began. "He's not a demon, or a shifter or a Leviathan. Hell, none of the standard monster repellent showed any sign of anything. Short of slapping an angel-banishing, I figure he sure as hell looks like the real deal."

"Cas," Sam questioned tentatively. Dean still didn't want to believe it. After everything- playing God, unleashing the Leviathans, fucking _dying _right in front of them, Dean wouldn't let hope get the better of him. He couldn't, just _couldn't _take that kind of disappointment. Not now. Not ever.

Bobby nodded, rising from his seat and moving over to the couch. Dean didn't move. He couldn't. Didn't want to see, but he did- oh so much did he want to see. But he knew, _knew _there was no way it was true. Cas had bounced back twice before, there was no way the cosmos were just going to allow him to pop back in after everything he... after all that had happened.

"He looked like he'd just dropped out of the middle of a God damned war zone," Bobby continued, arms folded over his chest as he considered the dark mop of hair peeking out from beneath the threadbare blanket. "Said a bunch of weird crap and then he just dropped like a sack of potatoes."

"Weird," Dean raised an eyebrow. "Weird like how?"

"Hell, boy," Bobby scoffed. "He sounded like he'd been takin' lessons in snarkiness from _you_."

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, stalking over to stand beside his mentor. What he could see of Castiel looked like warmed over dog shit; pale, gaunt and bruised from the chin up. The steady rise and fall of the angel's chest beneath the comforter was disconcerting and left Dean wondering. The only time he'd ever seen Cas asleep was when he'd been cut off from Heaven, his mojo drained. He supposed that if it were truly Castiel, back from the dead yet again, it stood to reason that he'd have been disowned after playing God.

"There's coffee in the kitchen," Bobby offered after a long silence. "You know where everything is. I figure I can trust you two to keep an eye on the guest of honour while I go get a few hours."

"Yeah, sure Bobby," Dean murmured, his eyes never leaving the slack and broken face below him as the elder hunter shuffled off toward the stairs.

He was barely aware when Sam stepped up beside him, breathing out a slow exhale at the sight.

"You wanna get some sleep, I can stay up with him for a while," Sam offered.

Dean shook his head, stepping away and settling into the moth-eaten armchair beside the couch. The offer was a diversion more than a concern for Sam. Dean knew that his little brother was sleeping less and less since Cas, at the height of his God-high had broken the wall in his mind.

"Nah," Dean said. "I got this, Sammy. You go ahead. I'll stay down here."

Sam nodded reluctantly, knowing that Dean would argue until he acquiesced in any case, and trod upstairs to the guest room.

Dean stared at the sleeping angel unabashedly, the scene of when last he saw his friend, his brother, playing out in his mind on a loop.

_Dammit, Cas, you child..._ _Why didn't you listen to me?_

_I'm going to find some way to redeem myself to you. I mean it, Dean._

_Cas is... he's gone. We run the show now. Ah, this is going to be so much _fun_._

Dean sighed, bristling the stubble around his mouth with his palm, thinking too many thoughts for his tired mind to contain. There were so many questions he wasn't sure could be answered. He barely restrained the urge to get up, go back to the sleeping angel and wake his ass up, demand some sort of explanation. If Castiel was as torn up as Bobby said, then letting him rest was probably the best option for the time being.

__SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

_He knew it was a suicide mission the moment their Fearless Leader had laid out the plan of attack. Just a hand full of them, including the plot-armored time traveler that had been brought along for the ride. He had no concern for the younger Dean's welfare; Heaven wouldn't allow him to come to harm if Zachariah had really sent him to see the outcome of his resistance. _

_His own days were numbered. Day, really. Not even that. This was to be the day he found peace, he was certain of it. The final embrace, the final act that he would perform for the Righteous Man._

_He would ride to his death, one of a ragtag team of underdogs to face down the Devil._

_They all knew that this was their last chance to stop Lucifer. The Colt, finally recovered, would be the final do or die of the Apocalypse. No one held their breath as their Fearless Leader returned, sans the unbroken mirror. It was time to face the music, sink or swim._

_The plan was simple. They were the diversion._

_Castiel granted the Fearless Leader one final grin of forced cheer, diluted by the narcotics in his blood but no less sincere. He hoped that his forgiveness shown through. He would always forgive the Fearless Leader, even for his worst._

_Dean nodded, and they moved._

_Risa was the first to fall. Lucifer had known they were coming._

_Castiel_ _took cover behind the crumbled garden wall, for all the good it would do. He edged to the end of the rubble shielding him from the battlefield, peering around the corner and was met by twin columns clad in white, his eyes rising past the gleaming suit jacket to meet the solemn face of Sam Winchester. No, not Sam. Lucifer, now. _

_There was pity in Lucifer's eyes as he looked down on the fallen angel. Castiel had fallen so far, drowning his misery in lust and substance. It was ironic, he thought to himself, that he felt _unclean_ beside the Morning Star, the very embodiment of sin and temptation. He was not worthy to stand in the divine light of his most reviled brother._

_"You could have avoided this fate, Castiel," Lucifer regarded his broken brother. "You could have stood beside me."_

_A glancing blow sent Castiel reeling back, his spine connecting with what once was a column standing at the entrance to the sanitarium garden. He groaned through gritted teeth as he attempted to right himself, only to be swarmed by half a dozen Croats. He felt the fire across his chest as talon-like nails dug into his flesh before he was yanked unceremoniously from the veritable dogpile of once-human bodies, suspended face-to-face with Lucifer once more._

_"I am truly sorry for your suffering, brother," Lucifer sympathised. "I wish it could have been otherwise."_

_Castiel smiled through the pain, returning the pitying gaze. "I'm sorry, Lucifer. I know that you loved our father more than any other; but you were wrong. And you still are."_

_The divine fury in Lucifer's eyes was worth every syllable._

_He felt his brother's wrath as his body was forcibly contorted; he felt the tendons of his neck creak as his head was spun sharply to the right, the bones cracking, the sharp jolt of pain just before everything went numb._

_Oh, but he lingered. He saw the Fearless Leader approach his brother from behind as his vision dimmed, saw the Righteous Man raise the coveted revolver and align it to put a bullet in their brothers' head- and it was all for naught._

_Had he the energy and will to do so, he would have shed a tear as Lucifer snatched the Colt from Dean's hand with a gesture, forcing the last Winchester to his knees with his outstretched hand. He watched Dean struggle on his hands and knees to get back up and fight, the desperation and loss in those green eyes as Lucifer won, raising one white leather-clad foot and pressing down on Dean's neck, snapping it with a sharp twist of his heel._

_It was over._

_The world was done._

_And it was his fault._

_And yet, strangely, all he wanted at that moment was for it all to be gone. He wanted the refreshing presence of the Dean that had long since died, withered away in the chest of the man that had taken his place. The Dean that Castiel had loved before they had drifted apart, cold and distant and utterly foreign._

_But there were no second chances for them. Even if the unbroken mirror of the Righteous Man succeeded in changing the past, it wouldn't be _their _past. What has come to pass is now written in stone; Sam Winchester will always say yes, and Dean will always say no, and it will always come to this._

_Perhaps the Dean of the past had managed to change his own future._

_Castiel longed to see it._

_And then, as the world grayed and faded to black, Castiel saw nothing._

__SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The pain awoke him, radiating through every inch of his body as the sun beat into his skull through his eyelids. His throat burned, every fibre of his being simultaneously protesting consciousness and demanding chemical release.

Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would think that he had been cast into the pit, but it was all wrong. He wasn't in Heaven, either – he was far too sober to be in any sort of paradise, and though the place reeked of cheap whiskey and dust and a half century of weathered wood and paint, he knew instinctively that he was... somewhere else.

Chancing to open his eyes, he immediately regretted it as the sharp white pain stabbed into his skull and twisted like a knife, his vision retreating momentarily as his eyes adjusted to the sudden invasion of photons through the cracks in the earth-tone plaid curtains above the broken down couch.

Castiel is fairly certain that he shouldn't be here. He recognizes this place, the walls covered in books, the coffee table covered in booze, even the motes of dust dancing in the sunbeams, stirring in the eddies churned up by his exhales.

Yes, he is definitely far too sober for this.

A muffled snort from somewhere above his head startles him out of his reverie, forcing him to movement. He pushes the blanket aside, taking the time to notice that his wounds have been dressed, reinforcing the memory of what he knew should have been his demise. He remembers every blow, every strike, every crunch of bone and patter of blood.

He sits upright on the uncomfortable sofa and freezes as he sees the man sleeping in the chair beside him like some kind of napping sentinel; the familiar profile, the sandy blonde hair, disheveled from sleep and sleeplessness alike, beautiful and almost childlike in this relaxed state.

Something in Castiel's chest clenches at the sight, churning with equal parts hope and dread.

But it's impossible. Fortune had never smiled upon his rebellious soul.

About that drink...

His ribs protested as he pulled himself upright, shuffling across the distant memory of a house he once knew, now close and tangible and utterly impossible. He moved along the wall toward the kitchen, marvelling at the reminiscence, the fond memories of himself seated at that very table in the days before they had headed out to camp. It was a bitter thing, a bile at the back of his skull eating away at the confusion and tentative content that he felt in waking here, safe and for the most part whole.

He found what he was looking for in the cabinet above and to the left of the refrigerator.

He spun the cap off the bottle of acrid amber liquid, leaning back against the counter as he took a much needed pull directly from the bottle.

When he lowered it again, a pair of wary green eyes were staring at him from the archway leading into the kitchen from the study, sleep-roughened face set in a mask of stern contemplation above folded arms as he leaned against the narrow wall. Castiel knew this look, but it seemed so out of place. The lines of the man's face were wrong, the skin unweathered, lacking the cold and emotionless wall of apathy that had come to define his Fearless Leader.

He put on his best sunny smile and took another drink, the harsh liquid burning it's way down his abused esophagus and settling nicely in his stomach.

"What the _hell _are you doing here," Dean all but growled. It was like some kind of fucking nightmare standing in Bobby's kitchen, half dead and barely conscious and already hitting the sauce.

The ghost of a future Dean had struggled to forget raised his eyebrows in response, as though he had every fucking reason to be there rather than that fucked up spectacle of a post-Apocalypse in 2014. He had never told Sam, or Bobby, or Cas about the future Zachariah had sent him to, about the fucked up broken mess he'd become in that future, or about Cas, broken and fallen and perpetually stoned out of his fucking mind.

And that was most of the reason. His future self had disgusted him. Cas's future broke his heart, because he _knew _it had been because of him, because he had dragged the angel down, corrupted and tainted the once divine being into becoming... this.

"Imagine my surprize," the impossible visage said with a wave of his hand that encompassed their surroundings. "The last time I saw you..."

The former angel tilted his head, glassy, bloodshot eyes narrowed in amused concentration on the hunter. It was beyond unsettling, faced with a nightmare that Dean had busted his ass, sacrificed almost everything to avoid. His stomach turned at the thought that this, _this _is what had been returned to him. This utterly farcical representation of his friend whom _he _had single-handedly destroyed.

"You don't fuckin' belong here, Cas," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "How did you get here."

The fallen angel frowned. "Good question, Fearless Leader. I wish I knew."

Something in Dean snapped at the moniker, and he found himself flying across the room, grabbing the wounded man by the lapels of his jacket and shoving him against the refrigerator, eliciting a pained wince and a muffled "oomph!" from the broken angel.

"HOW THE FUCK DID YOU GET HERE?" Dean had had enough bullshit. He couldn't take this. It was some kind of sick joke, to have this thrown at him on top of everything else.

"I don't know, Dean," Castiel responded. "I should be dead, I know that. But here I am, despite my better judgement."

Dean held him, teeth bared inches from the fallen angel's face, the urge to tear the future memory apart with his bare hands rising in his gut. It was so _wrong_.

"Dean?" Sam stood in the place Dean had been standing moments before, his tone wary as he watched his brother muscle the angel against the refrigerator, the tension of impending violence thick in the air. He wasn't quite sure what to make of what he was seeing. Dean had been all but pining for the angel since they had lost him in the reservoir, had even blamed himself without so much as saying so. The display of violence didn't make much sense to Sam, why Dean would react this way to the angel.

Even worse, Castiel was now staring at _Sam_ over Dean's shoulder, his eyes wide with an unsettling mixture of fear and curiosity.

"What in the blazes are you shoutin' for this goddamn early," Bobby's voice rumbled over the room, stopping as he pulled up short beside Sam. "Oh."

Dean ground his teeth before stepping back, releasing his grip on Castiel roughly. The fallen angel gracefully rolled his shoulders, returning the cap to the bottle he had so masterfully held in his grip throughout the assault and setting it on the counter. He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the refrigerator and regarded the three men in the room with smug amusement.

"So," Castiel said blithely. "I suppose I'm not in Kansas anymore, am I?"


	3. Chapter 3

(**AN: **Hello everyone! Thank you all so much for the reviews and the follows! This idea came out of nowhere, because I love future!Cas, and I thought to myself "What would happen if he was just tossed randomly back in time and dumped in the Winchesters' laps?" I'm a sucker for awkward situations, and it doesn't get much more awkward than this. I'm basically saying "to hell with canon" past Castiel taking a dunk in the reservoir, and I'm not sure yet if I plan to thread the canon storyline into this at all beyond what's already been established, timeline-wise. Add in some Destiel, a heaping helping of angst and... well, you pretty much get the idea where this is going. I might as well throw this out there now; the rating _may _change in the future, depending on how dirty my muse is feeling, but I'll be sure to let ya'll know ahead of time if I decide to bump it up to M for... obviously implied reasons.)

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Three hunters stood shoulder to shoulder, staring down at the fallen angel as he sat at the kitchen table, stuffing his face with ham and cheese sandwiches and washing it down with whiskey. To say that the general atmosphere of the room was uncomfortable would be an understatement; the only occupant that didn't appear to be tense was the one that wasn't even supposed to be there.

Dean shifted anxiously, arms folded over his chest. There weren't many times he found himself at such a total loss as to what to do, but if there ever was, this was one of them. He knew explanations were warranted at some point, but he was still trying to wrap his head around it, himself.

"So," Bobby said, clearing his throat to test the resistance of the heavy silence. "When are we gonna talk about the elephant in the room?"

Three sets of eyes turned to the elder hunter. Dean huffed, turning away and grabbing a beer from the fridge. He couldn't handle this right now, this gaping wound that had been ripped open again. He half entertained the hope that if he ignored it, it would just disappear.

"I'm flattered," Cas quipped, setting down the empty glass in his hand. "Pachyderms are noble creatures. There isn't much of me that remains noble, though, I'm afraid."

Dean chortled, earning him a glare from the younger Winchester.

"So this is what," the angel continued "oh-nine? No, judging by Sam's luxurious mane... twenty-ten?"

Sam flushed, shifting under Castiel's unsettling gaze. "Two-thousand eleven, actually," he supplied. "Uh, October twenty-sixth."

"Two-thousand eleven," Cas raised his eyebrows, impressed. "I'd assumed if I was going to be 'tripping the rift' I'd have ended up following _you _back, Dean."

Dean tightened his grip on the bottle in his hand, taking a long drink as the eyes of the two other hunters settled squarely on him.

"Yeah, well," Dean huffed. "I didn't write the time-travel handbook."

"Time travel," Bobby razed. "What the hell're you talkin' about."

"Cas... this Cas," Dean gestured with the hand holding the bottle, settling back against the counter with his ankles crossed in front of him. "He's from twenty-fourteen. Back in oh-nine, Zachariah sent me on a little sight-seeing trip to the future. _His _future. But we changed that, stopped the Apocalypse, stopped the Croatoan. _He _shouldn't even _exist_."

Castiel grinned. "You never told them? Well," he chuckled, refilling his glass nonchalantly. "I have to admit, Dean, I kind of like being your dirty little secret."

Dean felt himself flush. "Yeah, well," he stammered. "I didn't exactly feel the need to explain what a complete dick I'd become in the future, thanks. It's _depressing._"

"Wait," Bobby interjected. "So he's _not _Castiel?"

"I was, once," the angel smiled ruefully.

"He's the result of a bad decision," Dean muttered, his tone not entirely kind.

"I didn't, ah, _choose _to be here, Dean," Cas narrowed his eyes at the elder Winchester, slightly ruffled by the choice of phrase. His usually cool demeanor was beginning to break, even with the alcohol. He dug in his pockets, fingers wrapping around the smooth, round plastic of the prescription bottle therein.

All three men watched as he unscrewed the top, shook a few pills into his cupped palm and tossed them back, chasing the amphetamines with the remainder of the whiskey.

Dean felt sick watching this. It had been enough the first time. It wasn't that he was disgusted, just... sad. Castiel had been loyal, despite a few bad choices recently. The angel was the embodiment of virginal innocence, one of the few people that Dean had felt he could trust and confide in.

Castiel's betrayal, the lies and subterfuge had been bad enough. He couldn't save _his _Cas, any more than he had saved _this _Cas. He'd failed both of them, completely, allowed them to ruin themselves in different ways. He was disgusted with himself.

Not this time.

Dean moved forward, much to the alarm of his brother, who tried to intervene before it came to a repeat of the violence he and Bobby had walked in on half an hour ago.

Sam reached to cut him off, but Dean ducked around him, rounding the table and grabbing the angel's arm, wrestling the pills away from him and tossing them across the room- shattering the plastic bottle and spilling white capsules across the floor. He watched in horror as Dean pulled Cas out of the chair, toppling it over and shoving the fallen angel against the wall. He rifled through the pockets of the angel's coat, extracting three more bottles, a bag of hash, some tar-like chunk wrapped in cellophane and a glass pipe, tossing all of these onto the table unceremoniously as the fallen angel stared helpless at the hunter.

"Is this an intervention by the Spanish Inquisition, Dean?" Cas was smiling, but there was an edge of fear in his eyes as they flitted toward the growing pile on the table, underscored by a note of longing.

"Shut up," Dean growled, patting the angel down to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Bobby, Sam" he said, not turning his attention away from Castiel. "Get rid of this garbage, would you? I need to have a word with future-boy here."

Sam looked to Bobby, sighing as he moved forward to gather the angel's stash. It boggled his mind, this Castiel from a future that never happened, never would happen- but it could have. And Dean, Dean had never told him. The Apocalypse had been a hard time for them both, and it stung that his brother had held onto this.

Bobby shook his head, muttering as he turned his back on the kitchen and disappeared into the study. Sam looked over the labels of the bottles in his hand as he juggled the objects; Phenobarbital, Valium, Methadone... the angel had quite the pharmacy of opiates and barbiturates, it seemed. He picked up the bottle that had smashed against the wall, scooping up the white pills and retreating from the room, shaking his head in utter bewilderment. Had that alternate future been _that _bad? So bad that an angel of the Lord, fallen and broken, had turned to drugs and alcohol to escape the horrors of the Apocalypse?

For the first time since the almost-Apocalypse, Sam felt proud of himself for dragging Lucifer into the pit, if it meant that the train wreck now squaring off with his brother in the kitchen had been avoided.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS S

Dean finally let Cas go as Bobby and Sam left the vicinity, taking a step back and watching as the broken angel righted the chair, settling back into it gracefully with his right ankle crossed over his left knee, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. Dean reached out and snatched the upended bottle out of Castiel's hand, setting it down with a heavy thunk on the counter beside the stove.

Cas merely raised his eyebrows, leaning on his elbow against the table and taking what he had managed to pour like a shot, watching Dean with open curiosity.

"If you're here on an extended stay, no more of this shit," Dean dictated, pulling out a chair opposite the angel and sitting down, leaning forward against the tabletop. He didn't want to be near this. His first instinct was to grab the scruffy, gaunt hippie in front of him by the hair and drag him out the front door, effectively expelling him from his already fucked up enough thank you very much world.

But he wouldn't. He couldn't do that, because this was, technically, still his mess. And Dean Winchester wasn't about to just sweep it under the rug, even if the version of himself that had _created _this walking disaster had never come to exist.

He_ could _have existed, given the right circumstances, and that made Cas his responsibility, still.

"Of course, oh Fearless Leader," Cas jibed. "Whatever you say."

Dean closed his eyes, flexing his jaw as he breathed deeply, suppressing the urge to reach over and cuff the snarky bastard across his smug face. He remembered the way this Cas had interacted with his future self, all open and direct verbal attacks and bitter resentment. The angel's every word toward his righteous John Conner self of 2014 had been a not so thinly veiled attempt to get a rise out of him.

"Next time you call me that," Dean ground out "I'm locking your ass in the panic room until I figure out what hole to toss you in. I am _not _that asshole, got it? The Apocalypse came and went, for better or for worse. It's _over_."

Castiel regarded the hunter across from him for a long moment, wondering not for the first time this morning what the whole fucking point of this little jaunt through time and space was supposed to mean.

"So," he said, tracing the set of Dean's lips with his eyes before meeting the hunter's gaze. "Where's my counterpart? Did I flutter off back to band camp after the big event?"

Well, that struck a chord. Dean turned away from the angel's scrutiny at the question, wringing his hands as he sighed. The hurt and sorrow in the man's eyes confirmed more than a few things that Castiel had wondered about.

"Didn't make it, huh?" Cas shrugged, though his tone was sincerely sympathetic despite his aloof posture. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Dean shot his eyes back at the other man, flashing with anger.

"I missed you, you know," the angel continued. "It's nice to feel as though someone cares enough to put an end to my self destruction."

It was another blow to the chest. Dean winced, looking away. "I didn't care enough to save you, though."

Cas raised an eyebrow. Of course Dean would blame himself, even if his own timeline hadn't resulted in what he had become. It was in his nature to heap the burden of guilt on himself, even if it had been Castiel's own weakness and broken pride that had led to his downfall.

"You didn't do this, Dean," Cas consoled. "Neither did he."

Dean raised his eyes again, watching the angel. The smirk was gone from the fallen angel's face, brow a straight line over narrowed, too-serious eyes, and despite his general sickly appearance, Dean could see _his _Cas through the ruin.

He felt the anger rising in his chest to smother the sadness threatening to strangle his throat.

"The hell you say," Dean hissed. "I was the one who dragged you into all this, Cas! I made you question, rebel against your own kind and you sit there and say it's _not my fault_? I don't need your fuckin' self-martyring bullshit!"

Cas pulled himself up, settling back against the chair. "And I don't need yours, either. I was never quite as naïve as you think," he shrugged. "You didn't _drag_ me, Dean. I followed."

"Yeah," Dean scoffed "because I kept calling you down like a God-damned flotation device every time Sammy and I got ourselves in hot water!"

"Is that really what you think?" Cas raised an eyebrow at the hunter, the smirk returning. It was a little amusing, Dean's line of reason. "Do you really think that I, an angel of the Lord, would have come running to your beck and call simply because _you said so_?"

Dean stumbled at that, not quite sure how to interpret the rhetorical question.

Castiel stood fluidly, swaying a bit from the effects of the liquor and the drugs running through his system, but he was a pro at this. Half a bottle of whiskey and a handful of uppers wouldn't topple him.

He rounded the table, leaning to rest against the edge, dangerously close to Dean as he leaned back on his uninjured hand, staring down into those puzzled green eyes.

"Did you ever tell him, Dean?"

Dean frowned, no idea what the angel was asking. "Tell who what," he asked.

"You didn't, did you," Cas smiled slowly. "_He _did. Two weeks after Sam said yes. In this room, in fact- only our places were reversed at the time."

"What the hell are you talking about," Dean quavered, his voice not coming out quite as strong as he would have liked.

Castiel chuckled in amusement. "He told me that Bobby and I were all he had left."

"And?" Dean scowled, trying to still the quiver in his chest that rose as the angel loomed in closer.

"And then he did this," Cas breathed, lifting Dean's chin and leaning down to press their lips together. It was chaste, almost reverent, saturated with longing and heartache. Dean's heart froze in his chest, eyes wide in surprise stunned by the gesture. From what he had seen of his future self and the broken angel, _nothing _had indicated anything to suggest what Cas was insinuating. The two seemed to all but despise each other's presence.

Castiel finally pulled back, a small surge of pride warming him at the stricken look on the younger man's face. Role reversal was entertaining. He imagined his own face must have looked much the same on that night five years before, the confusion and not quite comprehending urge to reciprocate.

"I didn't follow you because I felt obligated, Dean. Nor did I follow you because you asked me to." Dean stared at the fallen angel in utter disbelief. That had actually just fucking happened.

The hunter swallowed, trying to play it cool. Yes, he had thought about Castiel, _his _Castiel. He had never voiced or acted upon it, though... hadn't felt worthy of the possibility that Cas might have felt the same. Hadn't resolved the simple _fact _in his own mind that he _was _interested in the angel, because that wasn't Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester wasn't into dudes. Dean Winchester wasn't into stalker angels with piercing, fathomless blue eyes and messy sex-hair and awkward, naïve conversations and rare smiles that made his heart feel like it was going to burst through his chest.

Castiel leaned in close again, whispering huskily into the hunter's ear. "I felt the same way."

And it was too much to bear. Dean had never had the chance, had never even guessed that Cas might have felt that way, and here was this debaucherous druggie, drunk off his ass at noon, leaning into his ear and telling him that he had been wrong.

Dean growled, shoving himself out of the chair and away from the table, stalking through the house to the front door. He didn't look back at the broken, time-displaced angel, nor did he spare a glance to his brother as he heard his name was called out from across the study, or Bobby as he stormed through, snatching up his jacket from the back of the chair he had left it on that morning; singularly focused on escaping now because he _couldn't._

He couldn't touch _anything _without fucking it up.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam fought the urge to go after Dean as his older brother stormed out of the house, the door of the Impala slamming a moment later followed by the powerful engine roaring to life. He sighed as he heard the tires peal out on the slick, muddy driveway. Apparently things weren't going well between his brother and the angel, whatever had been said had set Dean off, and he wouldn't be back until he'd cooled off. Sam knew he would come back. He always did, even when things were shitty.

Cas shuffled out of the kitchen a moment later, glass refilled, watching the two remaining hunters with an almost cat-like grin on his face.

"What did you say to him," Sam asked, eyes following the fallen angel as he crossed the room toward the stairs.

"Oh, nothing really," Cas tossed back, his eyes darting around the room as he paused, taking note of the trash can beside Bobby's desk. "Just cleared up a few things."

"You ain't gonna find that crap," Bobby offered as he caught sight of the fallen angel's wandering eyes. "Cleared out the medicine cabinet too."

Both hunters watched him as he blinked, then sighed. "Well, I suppose then it's 'safe' for me to get cleaned up without anyone worrying about me raiding the pharmacy, then."

Sam winced at the bitter note in Castiel's words. He'd been just as concerned as Dean when Cas had pulled out the pill bottle, seeming unconcerned with the number of capsules that fell into his hand before swallowing them or the fact that he'd had an audience in doing so.

Instead of commenting, however, he rose from the couch and headed up the stairs to the guest bedroom, pulling an old duffel out of the closet and digging out a pair of Dean's old jeans and a faded t-shirt. Dean hadn't tossed the angel out, which likely meant that despite the animosity, Cas was probably going to be around for a while, at least until they figured out what to do with him long-term Might as well at least make it so the fallen angel didn't have to hang around in bloody, torn attire during his stay, however long that ended up being.

Cas had just reached the bathroom door when Sam came back out, jeans and t-shirt tucked under his arm.

"Hey," he called out after the angel. "Here, take these. They're Dean's from a few years back, they should fit okay..."

Castiel seemed to shrink back at Sam's presence, now that they were more or less alone together in the hallway. The look of reluctant fear that the hunter had seen in the kitchen returned, hesitant to accept. Sam couldn't help feeling a bit stung by the reaction.

Finally, he stepped forward, taking the offering from Sam, but his eyes never left the taller man as he stepped back.

"Thank you," he said, pausing at the strangeness of the younger man's memory before him "Sam."

"Yeah, sure," Sam offered back. Castiel could see the hurt in the younger man's eyes, the way his shoulders slumped as though trying to make himself smaller, less imposing. It was strange, only the day before, the tall man before him had crushed him like an insect. Only, this wasn't Lucifer. This was Sam. Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester, who had- for all Cas knew- never been Lucifer's vessel.

It was still difficult to reconcile, however, after all these years fighting first to _save _Sam, then merely to stop Lucifer and set Sam free.

Castiel excused himself from the presence of the boy with the demon blood, closing the bathroom door behind him as he sighed. Someone out in the cosmos had seriously gotten their lines crossed in sending him here. There seemed no purpose to it, no rhyme or reason that he should find himself at the tail end of 2011, his counterpart in this timeline apparently dead and gone.

He stripped out of his torn and bloodied clothes and bandages, surveying himself in the mirror over the sink with a mirthless smile on his lips. Whoever had saved him hadn't done a very good job of it. At least his neck wasn't broken, but it couldn't have hurt whoever it was to have finished the job or left well enough alone.

Possible scenarios ran through his mind as he stepped under the steaming hot water. _Damn _it hot showers were amazing. It had been years, long before Chitaqua that they had access to a working water heater. Such luxuries simply weren't essential to camp life. He almost moaned as the water sluiced over his skin, loosening taut muscles, barely aware of the stinging in the wounds across his chest. Hot water was almost as good as sex.

He thought that perhaps it had been Lucifer, one final insult to show him the alternative, or perhaps to make him suffer through the Apocalypse again to prove Castiel's folly in denying his brother's offer to side with him all those years ago.

But that had all been erased when Dean from the past had returned to 2009, averted the Apocalypse and defeated Lucifer. He'd have to ask how they'd managed it, later.

Perhaps the act of tossing him back into the past had imploded the timeline, the absence of _this _time's Castiel dropping him displaced into a universe that never should have contained his sorry ass.

It could have been God, just as easily, and for similar reasons.

Or perhaps it was a chance at redemption.

Castiel sighed, watching the water sheet over the curtain of his hair as he tipped his head forward, leaning forward against the wall as he engaged in his own brand of spiritual healing, allowing his thoughts to wander through the haze of alcohol and amphetamines.

_Heaven had retreated after Lucifer took his vessel in Detroit. Without Dean to say yes to Michael, it was fruitless to fight- Michael would stand no chance against his brother without his True Vessel to contain him._

_It had been two weeks. Castiel could feel his Grace rapidly diminishing in the absence of the Host, his mind disturbingly quiet- alone for the first time in his existence. He felt hollow, a great chasm in his chest as he felt his essence slowly settle into his vessel, unable to escape as his true form became more and more damaged as he fell, piece by piece._

_It was terrifying, this feeling of helplessness, feeling so small, and the _emotions _that flooded him; it was near enough to shatter him._

_And Dean._

_Dean frantically screaming himself hoarse at a Heaven that was no longer listening, no longer interested in stopping the world from being crushed under Lucifer's heel._

_And still, he refused to give up on Sam._

_"We'll find a way to save him," Dean would say. "There has to be some way. Holy oil, we'll summon him, we can get him back, that angel exorcism Alistaire used on you..."_

_Castiel remained taciturn, watching Dean pace through Bobby Singer's kitchen, tearing at his hair and rubbing his hands over his face, desperate for an out, a way to save his brother._

_"Why didn't I let him come back," Dean sobbed, seated on the floor of the study, empty bottle of whiskey still clutched in his hand as though he couldn't bear to part with it. "I could have stopped it!"_

_Castiel had nothing to offer. He felt detached. His soul burned in the absence of his Grace. His own brothers had deserted him, left him on Earth as punishment. He had never felt so alone, and he sympathized with Dean's loss. His own brother, the only other angel remaining on Earth, had stolen Dean Winchester's brother away, had taken Sam and was now using him as a torch to ignite the End of Times._

_Castiel watched Dean from across the table. He barely had the strength left to maintain his vessel. He was becoming so very human in such a short time, only two weeks since Heaven had shuttered its gates._

_He had joined Dean in his daily ritual of drowning his misery and terror in alcohol. It took the edge off of the pain he felt in his chest, the emptiness in his gut that never seemed sated. The empty bottles divided them from each other, creating a barrier from each other's grief, which, Castiel supposed, was just as well. Dean was hurting. Castiel's pain was secondary. At least Castiel had brought his punishment upon himself. Dean had not deserved this pain, this destiny._

_"Cas," Dean said, addressing him directly for the first time in days._

_Castiel raised his eyes to the man across from him, watching curiously as the hunter rose, pacing again. It had become commonplace since Sam had gone. It would begin with the jilted laps around the kitchen, then the yelling, sobbing for Michael to come and claim his vessel, pleas that would never be answered. And then would come the destruction as Dean took his anguish to the scrap yard, beating out his sorrow on the husks of old disused automobiles until his knuckles were bloody and his throat could no longer carry his screams and his legs finally gave out._

_And Castiel would find him. Castiel would bring him inside, put him into the bed and watch over him as he slept._

_Though, over the last few days, as his Grace became less and less, he found himself losing time. It was frightening, to seat himself beside Dean's bed as the hunter slept a dreamless sleep, only to open his own eyes to the morning light filtering through the dirty windows, his neck sore and muscles stiff._

_He wouldn't worry Dean, though. His own choice had led to this. He would follow Dean, console him. He had no regrets as long as he remained useful to Dean._

_Dean didn't leave. He stood, staring at the angel seated at the table._

_"You and Bobby," Dean said, his throat working as his eyes watered. "You're all I've got left."_

_There was something cold and desperate in the man's voice, floating on something else that Castiel could not put a word to._

_"I will always be here, Dean," Castiel assured. "I am not going anywhere."_

_He thought that Dean would leave at this. He usually did when anyone offered him comfort now, felt that he was undeserving of kind words and promises._

_But Dean didn't leave._

_The angel felt panic rise in his chest as Dean closed on him, the hunter's eyes sharp with resolve. Perhaps tonight his anguish would be directed at Castiel. Something bitter and newly born in his mind almost welcomed the thought. He was as much to blame for the Apocalypse as Dean, after all. He was as much to blame for Sam's absence, for unleashing Lucifer from the Cage._

_When Dean didn't strike him he became confused, painfully and vividly aware of the hunter's proximity, of the hands gripping his shoulders, pulling the angel to his feet, crashing their lips together hard enough to break the skin against their teeth._

_"Cas," Dean's voice whispered in his ear as they parted. "Cas..."_

"Cas!" Castiel was shaken from his memories, panting softly from the expenditure of his 'spiritual moment'.

There was a knock at the door, insistent, impatient, and Cas huffed softly to himself as he finished rinsing himself off, pointedly ignoring the irritated growl from the other side of the door as Dean Winchester stomped away from the bathroom.

He must have been in there for a while. The water had run tepid somewhere in the middle of his reverie. He shut off the tap, stepping out onto the tile and towelling off, wrapping the terry cloth around his waist as he heard the lock picks slide into the lock, the door swinging open a moment later.

Castiel turned to elder Winchester as the other man faced him from the doorway, raising an eyebrow in muted curiosity.

"Voyeur much?"

Dean scowled at him in return. "Why the hell didn't you just answer."

Castiel shrugged, grabbing jeans and dropping the towel deliberately, smiling to himself as he caught Dean turn away, his cheeks reddening. He grabbed the torn pair of jeans from the lid of the toilet and pulled them on, picking the towel up and hanging it back on the rack.

"I'm decent," he assured.

Dean turned back toward the fallen angel, his eyes traveling down the slender, battered frame as Cas gingerly applied a new layer of gauze over his chest. Gaunt, yes... but not quite as emaciated as he had seemed on first assessment. Dean could see the definition of Castiel's ribs, the hollow of his clavicle, but he was leanly muscled, toned in a way he supposed only those in survival situations ever really became.

"See something you like," the angel's voice teased, causing Dean's skin t catch fire again. He had _not _just been checking out the fallen angel.

His eyes shot to catch on Castiel's blue gaze, swallowing hard. The fallen angel just smiled back, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Sam said you'd been in here a while," Dean found himself over-explaining. "Just making sure you weren't doing anything idiotic."

"That's sweet," Cas shot back, pulling the faded black t-shirt over his head, wincing a bit as the motion caused his skin to stretch, disturbing the his wounds.

"Whatever," Dean muttered, turning and stomping back down the stairs.

Dean didn't know what the dude's fucking problem was. Cas had been about the only person, other than maybe Chuck, who hadn't been a total dick in the future. And yet here he was, playing the damned bitter and resentful card, needling whenever he could get a fucking shot off.

Maybe it was the booze. Or maybe it was because he'd taken the bastard's stash away. Either way, Dean didn't care. He'd take care of his mess, and he wasn't gonna just sit there and let Cas blow himself up with drugs while he did it. His evil twin might have been okay letting the only real friend he'd ever had slowly waste away in iniquity, but Dean was _damned _if he was going to let Cas continue that shit now. There was still a chance he could save him.

It felt like God was punishing him, and hell- maybe the son of a bitch _was_.

He couldn't save Castiel after he'd popped the lid on Purgatory, so now he was being saddled with the worst walking disaster short of the Apocalypse that had chewed the angel up and spit him out. It fucking _hurt_, especially after what the fucker had pulled in the kitchen not more than an hour ago.

And_ that, _boys and girls, was driving. Dean. Crazy.

How many times he had thought about doing just that, wanted to close that distance between himself and the angel, as irrational and fucking _terrifying_ as the thought was, wanted to reach out and touch, taste, to see what sort of reactions he could goad out of Castiel.

His face burned as he reached the refrigerator, pulling out a beer and tearing off the cap, downing half of it in one gulp.

Dean turned and glanced over his brother as the young Sasquatch filled the doorway, arms folded over his chest, staring at him with his best bitch face in place.

"What," he grunted, returning his attention to the other half of his beer.

"How long are you two gonna do this," Sam demanded. "It's not just gonna go away, Dean."

The elder Winchester snorted derisively, taking a long drink. "It might."

"Dean-" Sam started.

"Look, Sam," Dean cut him off. "He doesn't fuckin' belong here. Totally different history. Now I'm not exactly for sending him _back_, that'd be a fuckin' death sentence if we even knew _how_, but he ain't our Cas."

"So what are we going to do with him?" Sam's expression fell awkwardly between a bitchface and those damned puppy dog eyes, watching his brother earnestly.

Dean sighed. "I dunno, Sam," he said honestly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can't just dump him out on the side of the road. He's fucked up, Sammy... Broken." _And it's all my fault._

Sam gave him a knowing, sympathetic look. He knew that Dean blamed himself for pretty much every shitty thing that happened to the people around him on a constant basis.

"Why didn't you tell me about Zachariah," Sam asked, half not expecting an answer.

Dean was quiet for a long moment before he sighed, looking away from his brother.

"It was too fucking depressing," he murmured. "You'd said yes, I was King of the Dicks and Cas..." Dean swallowed, finishing his beer and pulling out another one, busying himself with the cap, his back turned to the younger Winchester. "I saw Lucifer kill my future self. I led everyone I had on a suicide mission, and they all _died_. And they did it without question."

Sam heard the crack in Dean's voice and understood. Dean had carried this with him for _years_. Had he been in Dean's place, it would have messed him up, too. It was a kind of Hell, in a way, knowing that the wrong choice could lead to the same outcome, that it rested on you to make a difference, knowing what could come to pass given the right set of events.

"Hey," Sam said, stepping forward and putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. "It didn't happen, though. You said yourself, we changed everything."

Dean threw his head back, slamming his beer down on the counter and letting out a harsh breath as his glassy eyes bored a hole through the ceiling.

"It still happened, Sammy," Dean choked out, setting his jaw and locking eyes with his brother. "It still happened. Cas proves it. How is he _here_? If that future never happened, how does he even _exist,_ Sam?"

Sam sighed, giving his brother's shoulder a light squeeze before pulling back, grabbing a beer of his own.

"I dunno, Dean," Sam agreed that it seemed impossible, though he honestly knew next to nothing about time travel and parallel universes and crap. "I'm with you though, we'll figure something out."

He didn't dare say 'it'll be okay'. He had no way of guaranteeing that much just yet.

.

(**AN: **Reviews are love!)


	5. Chapter 5

(**AN:** This chapter ended up being a lot of filler. I wanted to do more with it, but I just can't tonight. Too tired to write x_x More to come, though! Sorry it's so angsty. Or maybe I'm not ;) )

A deep, aching throb woke him on the third morning of his stay in Bobby Singer's home, a brittle feeling in his bones that radiated outward to the ends of his nerves. It reminded him bitterly of when he had broken his foot, just over a year ago, only it was everywhere, all at once, and no matter how he shifted it _would not go away_. His throat was dry, his skin itched and he felt simultaneously too hot and too cold, no matter if he had the heavy comforter over him or not.

It was unbearable. The nausea felt secondary to the pain, the kind of queasiness that didn't feel like it would result in vomiting- just the low bile churning in the pit of his stomach, which cramped at odd intervals and sent him into spasms that only worsened the ache in his limbs.

He felt brittle as he forced himself to sit upright, shivering. In the five years he had been human, he had never felt this terrible, this finite. He needed something, _anything_ to take away the pain.

He lurched to his feet, intent on finding what he needed. He needed it _soon_, or he felt that he might die. It wasn't the fear of dying that drove him. Frankly, he had stopped worrying about that after the outbreak in Kansas City. It was the fear of dying in pain, because he knew that Dean in particular wouldn't just let him slip away so easily, as annoying as that was.

He felt like he was trudging upstream through a river of molasses on the dead of winter, every shift of the air sending a sharp chill over him that seeped into the marrow. He didn't see the table, his eyes too unfocused and his mind too clouded to take in much more than his objective through the pain- find something. Find anything to stop this. The edge of the coffee table banged against his shin, sending him toppling over it to the floor, the glass of water he'd brought with him the night before shattering as it hit the thin carpet.

With a miserable groan, he pushed himself back up, panting to catch his breath as he braced himself on the armchair, his feet not wanting to cooperate and do their job.

Dean flipped on the light, having woken at the crash and the sounds of movement coming from the study. He swallowed as he saw Cas, struggling to pull himself up off the floor a few feet from the couch.

He knew that the fallen angel had been doing some pretty messed up stuff, but he hadn't imagined it was this bad. Cas hadn't been this bad the previous day, just kind of bitchy and anxious. Mostly they had avoided each other while Dean fumed and Castiel brooded.

Now he looked _sick_. More than sick, and Dean wondered if he had maybe found something hidden away somewhere in a forgotten cabinet or medical supply stash. It wouldn't have been unheard of for any of them to keep a few extra vicodin or something on hand in case they needed it.

Sighing, he stepped forward, helping the angel into the chair. Cas fell back bonelessly, instantly tensing with a grimace of very real pain, his head lolling forward with a groan.

"For fuck's sake, Cas," Dean sighed, checking the other man over. His pupils were dilated and his skin was cool and clammy and he was shivering like he was in shock. The fallen angel groaned every time Dean jostled him the wrong way, as though each movement were causing him pain.

"Dean," Cas pleaded, his eyes desperate. "Please..."

The hunter swallowed down the knot tightening in his throat. Sam had mentioned withdrawal symptoms. Bobby had recounted a time when his old hunting buddy Rufus had broken his collar bone and been given morphine for the pain, that he'd been bitchy like Cas had been the day before, constantly fidgeting and paranoid. This was like the worst fucking case scenario.

"Come on, buddy," Dean said quietly. "Let's get you to a real bed."

He'd feel like shit putting Cas back on the couch in the state he was in. It was going to be a pain in the ass hauling him upstairs as he was, but Dean was pretty sure it would be worth the effort if this stage of Cas' recovery was going to take a while. Hell, he already felt like shit seeing the guy like this, even if it wasn't _his _Cas.

He hooked an arm under the fallen angel's shoulder, pulling him up to his feet. Castiel let out a keening moan that was just the wrong fucking tone for the situation, and more or less dragged the angel over to the stairs.

Getting _up _the stairs was another battle, as Cas couldn't seem to hold his own weight, _at all_, especially when he started fighting Dean halfway up.

"Dean," he panted, trying to pull away from the hunter. "Stop. I just need-"

"Sorry Cas," Dean said, not without a note of sympathy. "Not gonna happen. I told you, that shit's _done _while you're here."

The former angel hung his head and let out a miserable sob, going lax against the hunter.

Dean sighed, shifting his hold to all but carry Castiel the rest of the way up the stairs, hauling him into the room and easing him down onto the bed that Dean himself had been sleeping in not fifteen minutes before. He could sleep on the couch in the meantime.

"Just try to go back to sleep," he said as he pulled the covers up over the fallen angel, who had curled himself into a fetal position at the edge of the bed.

Cas hated this. Hated that Dean wouldn't understand. Refused to understand that it was what he _needed_. That it was the only way he'd made it through the last few years. _His _Dean had known, had understood, and while he hadn't approved, he'd left well enough alone. It _worked_.

He didn't hate this Dean. He knew that Dean thought he was helping, but it wasn't. It wasn't helping at all and he was in so much _pain_. Every breath felt like drawing embers into his lungs, spreading into his ribs and kicking off a chain reaction that seemed like every bone in his body was brittle ice, shattering into sharp fragments that tore at his muscles.

Dean was reluctant to leave him alone after finding him on the floor downstairs. What if Cas tried to get up again? He could barely stand, let alone walk. What if he tried to go downstairs like this? Someone needed to keep an eye on him.

He thought about putting Cas in the panic room, but it had been difficult enough getting him to the guest room, and Sam had claimed the cot down there for the night, since he'd had the bedroom the night before. It was barely four o'clock in the morning, and they were already here, so Dean pulled up the hard, barely padded armchair and set beside Castiel as the fallen angel whimpered fitfully, fading in and out of restless sleep.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sam rose from the basement shortly after ten o'clock to the smell of bacon cooking from the kitchen. He noticed the unoccupied sofa and discarded blanket in the study, and the broken glass beside the coffee table. Out of longstanding habit, he cleaned up the glass before following the intoxicating scent into the kitchen.

He found Bobby at the stove, a hefty stack of pancakes already set on the table, flipping the bacon strips in the cast iron skillet.

"Morning Bobby," Sam greeted hollowly. He hadn't slept well, as per usual these days. It's hard to sleep when the singing reaches a cresendo in an enclosed space. Not that he didn't like Floyd, it was one of the few bands that he and Dean agreed on, but one can only hear Astronomy Domine so many times in a row, full volume, a capella, before wanting to rip your ears off.

_Admit it, you like my singing._

Sam shook his head, massaging the scar on his hand a little harder than he probably needed to and flashing a wan smile at Bobby as the older man turned and grunted a warm "Mornin'."

"Dean up yet?" Sam saw no sign of his brother or the fallen angel in the study or the kitchen. None of the strips of bacon looked to have been pilfered yet, which meant that Dean was probably still konked out upstairs.

"Upstairs," Bobby said. "I wouldn't go up there, I were you. Ain't pretty."

Sam frowned, leery of the what that could mean.

Bobby caught the disconcerted look on the younger Winchester's face and chuckled bitterly.

"Cas," the older man explained. "Your brother hauled him upstairs last night after the strung out sonofabitch tried to make a break for it."

Sam worried at his lower lip for a moment, considering this.

"Withdrawal?"

Bobby gave an exaggerated shrug. "I guess. Don't think Feathers' slept a wink for all the noise he's making, you'd think someone was torturin' him."

Sam sighed, wandering back out to the study. Withdrawal symptoms could be excruciating, depending on the degree of dependency. He'd glanced over the symptoms online when Dean had announced that Cas was getting cut off cold-turkey, and none of it looked pretty. The angel was on some heavy shit, and not just one type of pharmaceutical, either.

He'd been mixing uppers and downers, which any self-medicating hunter knew better than to do. Too much risk, and hospitalization was a last resort. You just didn't mess around with the heavy meds unless you really needed to, and even then it was pretty limited to the run of the mill stuff like vicodin and percocet.

Browsing through recovery blogs and medical journals, Sam felt a little more confident. Usually symptoms weren't life-threatening, just incredibly painful and uncomfortable. Reading into it a bit further, he decided he'd talk to Dean later. Dean had pulled half a bottle of methadone from the angel's stash earlier, and the stuff was _designed _for kicking habits. True, Cas had been abusing the stuff, but a small dose, decreasing as the dependency wore off might help ease the discomfort and help him recover faster.

For lack of anything more helpful to contribute, Sam made a note of anything he found that might help the fallen angel. This almost-future-Castiel was kind of a dick, but he didn't want to see him suffer, any more than he imagined Dean did. Even if the influences on him had differed from their own Cas, turning into a bitter drug addict who seemed to get off on endless sarcasm and subtle insults, he had been their Cas at one point, before whatever event had altered that future and prevented it from happening.


	6. Chapter 6

_The world suddenly came crashing in around him as he felt someone shaking his shoulder, calling his name. For a moment, he didn't know where he was, but then a pair of wide, familiar green eyes swam into focus above him, short, sleep tousled hair lending to the frantic look of the man looming over him._

_"Christ, Cas," Dean sighed, worry etched upon his features. "Since when did you sleep, anyway?"_

_It had been just over a month now since Heaven's gates had closed, Castiel's slow fall and the steady loss of his Grace. Over the past few weeks he had found himself drifting away occasionally as he watched over the hunter's sleep, losing an hour or two here and there. This morning, however, he had slept past his charge, the clock on the night stand reading eleven o'clock in the morning._

_Seven hours. He had slept for seven hours._

_There was something else, as well. He could no longer feel his Grace humming within him._

_It had been steadily waning over the days since he began to fall, but this morning it was barely a spark- a stray ember barely clinging to life as it drifted within his vessel._

_Stilling himself, he extended his senses, blue eyes locked on the green ones before him, his breathing for some reason quickening as he felt his perception muted; sight, sound, touch, taste- and he felt so very fatigued._

_He reached for that remnant of Grace within him, suddenly feeling too confined in this room, and was met with a sharp pain that ripped through his being._

_Castiel screamed, back arching in the chair as that final ember flickered and went out._

_"Cas... fuck, Cas!"_

_A broken sob came unbidden to his lips as his eyes stared forward, focused on nothing. Peripherally, he was aware of Dean's eyes moving over him, to the walls, processing what Castiel feared was the worst._

_"Shit," Dean sighed, locking onto the angel's face at last- nothing but pity and loss written in his eyes. _

_Castiel knew that he was useless, now. Weeks of silent suffering. Dean had no reason to keep him, now that he was completely powerless. Now that he had lost his wings._

_Head hung low, Castiel pulled himself up, aware that he was shaking from the pain and the shock, not daring to turn and see the sooty pattern he knew would be etched upon the wall behind him._

_"I will go," he announced, struggling to keep his voice steady._

_Dean stood back, his brow drawn into a look of incomprehension and frustration._

_"Go? Go _where_, Cas?"_

_Castiel cast his gaze aside, unable to meet the hunter's eyes. How could Dean not see? He was no longer an angel. What use was he now?_

_"I am no longer needed," Castiel murmured. "I will only be a burden to you."_

_Dean was a blur of motion, and in short order Castiel found himself sprawled on the bed, tangled in a mess of dirty, rumpled trench coat as the hunter stood over him, jaw set and eyes ablaze with anger as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. Castiel stared up at his former charge, a flutter of worry twisting idly through his gut. Of course Dean would be angry. Angry that Castiel had lied, that he had kept this secret from him. Angry that the angel that he had depended on could no longer do anything for him._

_"How long," Dean grit out between his teeth, the edge to his voice barely held in check._

_"Since Detroit," Castiel admitted, casting his eyes aside- a sharp pain in his chest as he saw the burned outline of his wings on the wall and curtains to his right._

_"Cas, you fucking moron," Dean sighed, his tone softening. "Why didn't you say anything?"_

_Castiel shut his eyes, letting out a soft sigh of resignation. "I did not want to concern you with my troubles. Your brother is more important."_

_The pain in Dean's face caused Castiel's heart to twist in knots. He had let this man down yet again._

_"You're important, too, you retard," Dean said, sitting beside Castiel on the bed and leaning over him. "Or did you forget that already? I told you, you and Bobby are all I've got left."_

_Castiel barely stifled a cry of surprise as the hunter's lips met his own, rough, warm hands moving beneath Jimmy Novak's ever present suit jacket, brushing it and his trademark trench coat off of his shoulders in a smooth caress._

_He felt his lips follow as Dean pulled away to murmur in his ear "did you think I'd kick you out after everything? Idiot..." and then those lips were brushing down his neck, warm breath against his skin as he felt the tie loosened and pulled away, the buttons of his shirt undone one after the other._

_"Dean," he questioned. He felt his skin burning at the hunter's touch. He had become accustomed to Dean kissing him over the last couple of weeks, since that night in Bobby's kitchen. This was new, however, and it both frightened and thrilled him._

_Everything was moving too fast. Dean's hands seemed to touch every inch of him at once, leaving tingling ripples in their wake, limbs tangled with his own as the sensation swelled over and through his vessel- his body. He was overwhelmed by sensation as Dean touched him, heat swelling in his abdomen until it became too much and he was _dying _beneath the hunter's body, pressed together as they were, and it no longer mattered because he wasn't being sent away, because Dean had found a use for him, after all._

_They moved together awkwardly but it was oh so right, and Castiel felt his soul swell and shudder at the pure feeling- it was the closest he had felt to Heaven since he had left it behind and he savoured it, craved it, and if he was indeed dying, he welcomed it at the hands of the Righteous Man._

_"Fuck, Cas," Dean's voice was sharp, breathless. Castiel could find no sound within himself to respond as his vision went white, his body spasming as he felt himself fly apart beneath the hunter, only to be brought back together again by warm, chapped lips against his own, sweet and reverent and Castiel had never felt anything so pure._

Castiel woke to darkness, his body aching and chilled but no longer in agony as he had been before.

With a groan, his hand seeking the space in the bed beside him and finding it empty, he pushed himself up. He was alone in the room, the clock on the night stand reading nine twenty-two. He had no idea how long he'd been out- hours, days perhaps.

He felt ill.

It took a moment to remember where he was. His head felt fuzzy on the heels of the dream that had drifted into waking with him, another bittersweet memory from another time, another world where things had still been half-right despite the state of the world.

Cas chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He really had been so naïve, back then. He almost missed the simplicity of it, drowning in each other's sorrows in the months before Chitaqua. The physical comfort they had found in each other before The Mission took over.

The journey downstairs to the study was an arduous one as his legs threatened to give out at every step, nausea sweeping through him at every turn.

He was met with an apprehensive look from Bobby Singer, seated at his desk behind a mound of forms and tomes as he ambled into the tenebrous room.

"Well if it isn't Lazarus, back from the dead," Bobby muttered.

Castiel gave the man a fleeting smile that he didn't much feel.

"Where's the Dynamic Duo," Cas asked idly, the words thick and sluggish in his throat.

"Poltergeist in Worthing," the old hunter supplied. "Left this mornin'. Should be back soon, if everything went smoothly."

Cas snorted in amusement. Dean on a poltergeist hunt, it was almost ridiculous after living the dream in the aftermath of the Apocalypse. His Dean hadn't hunted for years; it was all reconnaissance and survival, fending off Croats and tracking down demons for information and leads on Lucifer's movements. He tried to imagine the Dean of his time taking the time to go after a spirit and found it almost impossible.

"What's so funny," Bobby eyed him warily. It was clear that the old man didn't much like him. In the time before the Apocalypse, Bobby Singer had hesitantly tolerated him, when he had still been an angel. That might have had something to do with knocking him out cold when they had first met in the barn. To be fair, though, Bobby had been shooting at him at the time.

"Just observing the lack of parallel," Cas tossed back with a feeble smile. "The Winchesters did well, here. I actually find myself surprised that they managed to stop Lucifer. How was that, anyway?"

Bobby snorted, but the glimmer of pride in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Almost didn't," he said, watching the fallen angel carefully. He still wasn't sure on trusting the man Castiel had become- a doping alcoholic with a mile long sardonic streak. Of course, Bobby hadn't lived through the Apocalypse like the angel had, though he supposed he probably wouldn't have bore it well, either. He sighed when he noticed that Cas was still standing there, watching him with a shadow of that unnerving stare that seemed to define the angel. "Sam said yes to Lucifer, and Michael nabbed Adam Milligan," Castiel's eyebrows shot up at the name, seeming... _amused_. "But just before the final showdown, yo- our Cas, Dean and me tracked 'em down in Lawrence and Sam managed to get control of himself long enough to open up the cage and throw himself and Michael into it."

"Into the cage," Cas mused. "Yet Sam's here now."

"Yeah, our Cas busted 'im out."

Cas nodded. So his counterpart had survived the Apocalypse after all. Something else had happened, then. Sensing the reticence that fell once Bobby had finished his brief retelling of the thwarting of the apocalypse, he excused himself to the kitchen.

"There's some leftovers in the fridge," Bobby called after him. "Everything else is on lockdown."

The fallen angel sighed, opening the refrigerator and staring at the neatly stacked containers on the shelf. He was hungry, but the thought of actually eating anything made his stomach cringe. After some internal debate, he settled on some leftover mashed potatoes.

He managed about three spoonfuls before it was too much and he felt like he was going to be sick from it, getting a glass of water instead. He longed for the comfort he had found in the smooth, white capsules, the alcohol and the arms of a willing partner- or three- or four.

There seemed to be no place for him here, watched as though he were some alien thing not to be trusted. Perhaps the thought wasn't _completely _inaccurate, but it still brought him no cheer. At least in his time he had been tolerated, ignored except by those he engaged with during his nightly 'spiritual retreats'.

Sick as it was, he missed his own time. He missed _his _Dean, though they had grown so far apart from each other at Camp Chitaqua that their interactions were almost exclusively Apocalyptic in nature, save for the rare occasion that Dean would come stumbling drunk into his cabin, all violence, savage, needy- rarely staying long past what he had come for.

How twisted had he become that he had relished those nights?

Not for the first time, he found himself cursing whatever cosmic force had sent him here, reminding him of how far he had fallen, resenting that he and his reality had continued to exist despite the Apocalypse being successfully thwarted.

It didn't seem fair.

This, whatever it was, it wasn't going to work for him.

He needed his comforts, and none of them were to be found here.

.

(**AN: **Loving the reviews! I am also taking into consideration some of the suggestions that are popping up, so if there's something you want to see, don't hesitate to throw it out there :)


	7. Chapter 7

The poltergeist in Worthing turned out to be a pretty cut-and-dry haunting, hardly even a milk run compared to some of the crap they'd faced in recent years. It had seemed like they'd only be in town a few hours past dark; salt, burn, hasta la vista.

If only Dean's head had been in the game.

It was Sam's turn for trench duty for once, and Dean had been perched on the head stone of one Steven Davies, keeping a keen eye out for the perturbed poltergeist as his little brother slowly pecked away at the hard-packed soil.

The recent rains in the region helped to a degree, but twenty years' worth of settling was still no small feat when digging through six feet of dirt. Thankfully, the evening found them dry, the sky above the cemetary in lacy white clouds that fairly glowed with the luminous waxing moon, negating the need for their lanterns.

Dean held the shotgun in his lap, two rounds of rock salt and iron shavings loaded into the barrel, a half-dozen more easily accessible in his jacket. His eyes wandered restlessly over the mist-covered field of the fallen; stone tributaries standing erect to proclaim a life had been lived, now laid to rest in the earth below.

The trouble was, his mind was just as restless.

It seemed like every waking moment over the last few days that his thoughts were left to their own devices, they kept circling back around to that damned hippie laid up back at Bobby's. He still wasn't entirely certain if Cas was serious or just fucking with him, but if it was the latter, Dean wasn't sure he could deal without wringing the bastard's scrawny neck.

Whenever he dwelled on it, he could still feel the fallen angel's lips on his own, or see the bare plane of pale, scarred back.

And it wasn't fucking fair, because even though it was _Cas_, it wasn't _his Cas_, and he would never have the opportunity to explore what any of it meant with _his _angel. Castiel was gone, and as far as Dean knew, he wasn't coming back this time.

He wished now that he had just jumped into the whole chick-flicky talking about feelings crap when he'd had the chance back at Stull Cemetary, instead of the stupid crap he _had _said.

_Cas, are you God?_

He snorted to himself at the memory, but he couldn't help wondering if the angel might not still be alive if only he hadn't been so fucking _stupid_. If he hadn't been so God damned tore up at the time.

But where would that have left Sammy, if Cas had stayed?

These thoughts, chasing frantic laps in his thick skull, were the reason Dean hadn't seen the spirit until Sam was shouting his name. Of course, he'd already been airborne by the time he registered what it meant.

_Whoops, looks like big brother's down for the count._

Sam grit his teeth, hauling himself out of the grave on the side opposite the spirit, rolling to grab the shotgun from where Dean had dropped it and pointedly ignoring the voice that whispered and taunted in his ear.

He fired off a round as the spirit lunged, temporarily dispersing it. Frantically, he searched his pockets for matches, kicking over the open can of lighter fluid onto the now exposed corpse below as he scanned the graveyard for his brother.

_Over to the left, Sammy. Ooh, that looks like a nasty bump..._

Sam winced, his eyes settling, to his dismay, off to the left where it appeared Dean had been flung head-first into a headstone a couple dozen yards away. He shook out the salt over the fluid-drenched husk in the coffin, then readied a match to strike.

_Better look out behind you- your friend is back..._

Sam ducked and rolled just in time to avoid the attack, raising the shotgun once more to scatter the spirit's incorporeal form.

_Bravo! Good form, Sammy!_

"Shut up," Sam ground out as he recovered the match book, lighting the whole thing to be sure before tossing it in, setting the corpse of Steven Davies ablaze.

He abandoned the shotgun, grinding his thumb into the palm of his left hand as he jogged over to where his brother had fallen.

"Dean," he called out, a wave of relief washing over him as Dean responded with a groan that sounded more irritated than injured.

Sam helped his brother up, taking a step back to give him a once over.

"Dude, what the hell was that?" He wasn't sure what it was, but there was something definitely off about Dean tonight. It'd been years since he'd seen his brother get owned by a spirit like that.

"It was nothing," Dean grumbled, limping off toward the grave to grab up their supplies and get the hell out of there. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Sam about his teenage schoolgirl bullshit. "Let's just go, okay?"

"Dean," Sam sighed. "Look, you know if there's something you wanna talk about-"

"No, Sam!" Dean rounded on the younger Winchester. "There's nothing to talk about, okay? I'm just having a shitty night, leave it alone."

Sam raised his hands in surrender, giving his brother a look that he hoped conveyed how much bullshit he thought that was. "How's your head, want me to drive?"

The death glare that he received at the offer was proof enough that Dean was going to be all right.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Bobby was going to hunt down and slowly pull apart whoever it was that decided it was a good damned idea to call at four o'clock in the morning. The only reason he even hauled his ass out of bed to stumble into the study and answer the phone was that the boys still hadn't made it back from Worthing. Not that it was unusual for the idjits to take their sweet ass time finishing up a job, but a ringing phone in the wee hours of the morning might mean trouble.

"One of you better be in traction," he offered the crackling line in greeting.

"Bobby," a very feminine, not Sam or Dean voice asked.

"Jody?" Well, that was an odd turn of events. "The hell's goin' on? My boys get themselves in trouble again?"

"Well," Jody sighed heavily over the line. "One of my guys picked some asshole up after last call last night, says he knows you. Figured it might be one of your colleagues."

Bobby washed a hand down his face. Jody didn't sound like she was all too amused by whomever it was, and Bobby couldn't even begin to guess who might be name-dropping him in town, to the damned police, of all things. Good thing he was on fair terms with Jody, or things could've got real ugly, if that were the case.

"Who'm I gonna skin?"

"He's got no ID on him," Jody sighed, clearly flustered. "Drunker'n a skunk and half again as lecherous. Six foot, mid thirties, dark hair, blue eyes ring a bell?"

"Son of a..." Bobby growled, pacing a few steps back and forth in front of his desk. "Yeah, I know him..." Bobby sighed. "Do I _have _to come get'im?"

"Well," Jody replied. "Without any legal documents, I'll have to print him... if he's one of your buddies, well. Who knows what that would turn up. Guess it depends on how much you like the little creep."

The old hunter let out a huff of annoyance. "I'll be down in a couple hours."

Pressing down the hook, he grumbled as he let it up again, dialing Sam's number. Maybe putting the fallen angel in the panic room wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

They were just pulling back into Sioux Falls when Sam's phone started ringing.

He frowned at the caller ID before flipping it open, giving Dean a narrow look before hitting the button to connect the call. "Hey, Bobby..."

Dean glanced over to his brother in the passenger seat, the gnawing edges of worry and irritation working their way into his skull as he turned the radio down, straining to listen in. Bobby calling at four in the morning meant a pretty short list, and he was betting it had something to do with Cas. Either there was something wrong, or the fallen angel had gotten himself into trouble.

Seeing Sam roll his eyes out of the corner of his eyes confirmed it must be the latter.

"All right, we'll stop by the station," Sam sighed. "Thanks, Bobby... sorry you got woken up."

"What the hell happened now," Dean barked, done with this shit.

Sam sighed. "Cas got himself arrested in town, Jody's gonna help get him off the hook if we pick him up before five."

"What?" Dean tore his eyes away from the road, staring at Sam. "What the _fuck! _What the _hell _did he do to get arrested?"

"Guess we'll find out when we get there," Sam shrugged.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Dean stalked into the sheriff's station with Sam on his heels, struggling to keep up despite his long legs. He didn't really care at this point what kind of trouble Cas had got himself into, and he was of half a mind to let him rot in jail. Except, he couldn't do that. The fallen angel was his responsibility, whether he liked it or not, and if Cas got dragged through the system for... whatever it was he'd done, that was just gonna bring up a whole lot of other crap that just didn't need to be dealt with by any party involved.

First and foremost, if they printed him, whose record did they think would come back?

Better to just avoid the shit storm and haul his hippie ass back to camp.

Sheriff Mills met them in the lobby of the holding block, visibly ruffled and looking none too pleased. Arms folded across her chest, she glanced between the brothers as they stopped a few feet from where she stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching her expectantly.

"Bobby sent you, huh," she didn't look surprised. "You're lucky I like the old coot."

"What did he do," Sam asked hesitantly. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know.

"Should I start with drunk and disorderly, or should we just jump right into public indecency?"

Sam grimaced, exchanging a look with Dean before the elder Winchester huffed irritably.

"Take us to the hippie, we'll get him outta your hair."

Jody smirked, shaking her head and leading the way back. "Lotta love, guys... You sure you want 'im?"

She led them to the only occupied cell in the short hallway, the disheveled fallen angel laying face-down on the cot, out cold. It was Dean's turn to grimace as he noted that Cas was now wearing a pair of blue jail jumpers.

"What, was he _streaking?" _Dean snorted incredulously.

"I catch him out there again, boys," Jody warned, giving Dean in particular a stern look "Won't be much I can do. I'll put him in." Of course it would be Dean's responsibility. He already knew that, he didn't need Sheriff Mills to remind him.

"Thanks, Sheriff Mills," Sam offered in his most polite tone. "We'll make sure to keep an eye on him."

Jody gave him a look that accurately portrayed just how un-amused she was with the whole ordeal as she unlocked the cell door, pulling her flash light from her duty belt and rapping it on the bars a few times. "Up an' at 'em, pretty boy... your ride's here."

Cas mumbled and shifted, burying his face in the thin pillow on the cot.

Dean growled under his breath, striding into the cell and grabbing the fallen angel under one arm, hauling him up- Sam coming to the assist a moment later as they dragged him out of the cell.

Cas half woke, stumbling along for a few steps, and grinned at Jody.

"Keep your nose clean," she admonished, shaking her flash light at him.

"I kissed the sheriff..." Cas sing-songed to the tune of Bob Marley, all teeth as he leered at Sheriff Mills.

"'Least you didn't kiss the deputy," Jody huffed in feigned amusement. "Vamoose."

The Winchesters dragged their charge back out to the parking lot, dumping him unceremoniously into the back of the Impala. Dean ripped open the driver's door and dropped into the seat, turning the ignition before Sam had even got the angel situated and the door closed.

"The hell, Cas!" Dean fumed at the half conscious angel. "What the hell did you do? You go out and find yourself a pusher? Are you that fucking _weak_?"

"Hey," the fallen angel slurred back. "You're pretty when you're angry..."

"Fuck you, Cas," Dean growled, his face a mask of fury.

Sam shot his brother a concerned look as the elder Winchester shot in reverse, pulling out of the lot and onto the road back toward Bobby's house, the angel snickering to himself in the back seat, completely wasted. Sam half wondered how he'd managed it, considering.

Dean was having none of it.

He'd lock the son of a bitch in the panic room until he came to, and then they were going to have a little chat.

.

(**AN: **Chapter 7! Love love love the reviews! I'm glad you're all enjoying it so much :) Your wonderful comments make my day)


	8. Chapter 8

_(_**AN: **Finally a new chapter! Sorry to keep you waiting for so long, it's been a busy kind of week. Here, have some angst for your Monday :)

_._

_Jarred rudely awake rather suddenly, he became aware of the cold, wooden floor before the new sharp pain in his ribs and the heavy, military style boots that he surmised were the source of his sudden discomfort and unwelcome consciousness._

_He pushed himself up with a wince, re-acquainting himself with his surroundings; the rough-hewn floor fo the cabin, the flimsy mattress pushed into the corner, the empty pill bottles scattered here and there and the collection of whiskey bottles meticulously lined up against the wall like good little soldiers. Looks like he had made it 'home' last night, after all._

_They had been at Chitaqua for almost four months now. Six months and eight days since Dean had put Bobby down after the infection set in. One year, three months, two weeks and three days since the gates of Heaven had closed tight. Not that he was counting, or anything._

"_Cas, come on," Dean Winchester's voice barked out at him from somewhere above. "You're on rotation. The hell is wrong with you?"_

_Castiel exhaled his melancholy, tensing already from the anxiety that had plagued him for the last year and a quarter. He searched his pockets methodically, tension threatening to cascade into panic when he couldn't find the bottle of Valium Dean had supplied him with to keep him mellow, not freaking out over the emptiness in his head and the claustrophobic feeling he got just from inhabiting his own skin. He found himself thinking of his vessel as a prison more and more; a cage that was slowly and steadily rotting away and he couldn't escape it and damn it! He needed his fucking pills!_

"_Cas, for fuck's sake, chill out!" Dean snapped, taking a few steps away and kicking the little orange bottle half full of little white pills closer to the fallen angel, who immediately stopped gouging welts into his arms with his fingernails, snatching the bottle up and shaking three oblong capsules into his hand. He felt calmer almost as soon as the bitter pills touched his tongue, swallowing them dry. He felt placated just knowing that they would soon be working to block out the void and the pain._

"_Thanks," he murmured, pulling himself off the floor and shuffling over to the rickety wooden table. He was aware of Dean's eyes on him, watching as he pulled one of the vellum sheets from the little yellow packet of papers, pinching out a bit of the dried green leaves that resided in the little leather pouch on the table, dextrous fingers working to roll it all up into a neat little package._

_It was a new trick he'd learned from a man named Avery in Tulsa, and he'd taken to it like a fish to water. It was a natural remedy, and though he felt lost without the Valium capsules, the marijuana, he found, helped to balance him out. He wasn't proud of his vices, but he wasn't ashamed, either. It took away the pain of remembering who he was, who he had been._

_Dean sighed as he turned, lighting the joint and inhaling deeply. Over the last several weeks, the former hunter only seemed to come to him when he needed something – information, a pair of hands to hold an extra shotgun, a physical outlet. Cas didn't mind that they had moved into separate cabins in the first week that they'd arrived. After all, Dean had taken up sort of a position of leadership. Being one of the few among them that had been a hunter before the Apocalypse began. The others looked up to him for guidance, to show them what to do, how to defend against the monsters, demons and Croats that now freely roamed the desolate remains of the world._

_He didn't mind that Dean sometimes spent his nights with the women in the camp, or invited them to his own cabin. Dean had his own vices, after all._

_Castiel wouldn't deny that he missed the closeness they had shared in that first year, but now there were more important goals than the needs and wants of a fallen angel. There was The Mission to consider, now. The Colt, and freeing Sam Winchester from Lucifer. _

_Dean only ever sent him on supply runs. Never anything more important than food and medical supplies, and always under the close supervision of one of their own number- those who they had brought with them to camp. Usually Yeager or Sandy, sometimes Chuck, if they were short handed. At least, he thought, he was still useful._

"_You know what," Dean sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind. You stay here. This one's a milk run anyway."_

_Castiel frowned, giving Dean a long look, trying to figure out the sudden change of heart._

_Dean stared evenly back at him, the cold that had been creeping into his eyes radiating a chill that Castiel could feel at three paces. "When did you become so _useless_, anyway?"_

_The words stung even through the protective barrier of narcotics and forced composure. _

"_I'm not useless, Dean."_

"_Yeah?" Dean huffed incredulously. "Then why do I have to drag your ass off the floor three times a week?"_

_The fallen angel scowled at the hunter, but he had nothing to say. There was nothing to refute the truth. He found himself turning away from the Righteous Man, staring fixedly at the empty space to his right._

"_You know what, Cas," Dean said after a moment "You do what you want. We're still in this together, all right? I'm not gonna tell you what you can or can't do, I mean, it's the fucking Apocalypse, right? You do what you gotta do, and I'll do what I gotta do."_

_Castiel remained motionless, resting back against the table for a long while after Dean made his exit, shouldering the responsibility that he was meant to take upon himself that day. Was he useless? He still assisted with the wards and training new arrivals, but more often than not he simply wasted himself away in the cabin, lonely and drifting through the haze of his own making._

"What happened to make you so... broken?"

Castiel pulled his face out of the lumpy batted pillow, cracking an eye open and staring up at Dean Winchester. It wasn't _his _Dean, however. The man staring down at him still appeared to have a few fucks to give if the concern buried under the stern, angry mask was any indication.

He huffed softly, turning his face back into the dark warmth of cotton and polyester. His head ached, and he was apparently back in the custody of his young former-charge.

"You even remember the crap you pulled last night?" Dean was trying hard to maintain his anger, but the guy just looked so freaking pathetic, strung out and half unconscious, sprawled on the panic room cot in the county jail jumpsuit. Sam had reminded him before coming down this morning that Cas probably didn't have any practical experience with the 'real world', other than what he'd experienced as an angel- and that didn't really count for shit, considering. The guy had been human during the freaking Apocalypse. That's gotta mess a guy up. It's not that Dean wasn't aware of the fact, it just kind of got away from him.

"Unfortunately," Cas murmured into the pillow "I remember everything. One of the 'perks' of a celestial being- the big guy upstairs made it so we'd never forget. Anything."

"Yeah, well," Dean scoffed "you sure as hell seemed to forget who you were dealin' with."

Castiel snorted and pushed himself upright on the cot, taking in his surroundings through pain-narrowed eyes. "Am I being held prisoner now?"

"It's better than where you almost ended up," the hunter supplied with a shrug. "Who knows what they would've pulled up if they'd run Jimmy's prints against the system."

Cas actually had to pause for a moment at the name. Jimmy? Of course, Jimmy Novak. He felt a wave of guilt, recalling it now. He hadn't even thought of his vessel in a number of years, long since it had become _him_. As if he wasn't depressed enough as it was.

"I suppose you have a point," Cas conceded, idly picking at his fingernails and pointedly not looking at the man looming over him.

"Look," Dean sighed, taking a seat next to him on the cot. "I'm tryin' to help here, man, but you're not exactly making it easy for me. I know where you're from I was… a bit of an asshole, okay? I get it. But that didn't happen here. I'm still _me_. And maybe I can't make up for all the shit I put you through, can't make up for you getting kicked down the golden staircase, but the least I can do is help you get through this crap and get you back on your feet."

Castiel drew his gaze up to meet Dean's eyes, feeling his jaw clench and his eyes narrow in agitation. "What makes you think I want to be saved, Dean? And just how self-righteous are you to assume that I fell because of _you_?"

Dean was taken aback by the shift in the fallen angel's attitude. He had always assumed that Castiel had fallen because he had sided with him and Sammy during the Apocalypse, that it had been his corrupting influence that had drawn the angel down into the dirt.

"The only thing that you did, Dean, was to show me free will," Cas continued "to show me that I was capable of going against orders and doing what was _right_. But what did that amount to? Sam said yes anyway, and we fought a losing battle unto our deaths at Lucifer's hands. Do you know what free will earned me, Dean? I watched you _die_, and then I watched Lucifer _kill _you."

Dean frowned, considering the separation of 'dying' and 'being killed'. His future self had been a real dick. Was it because he had died inside when Sam was gone? It made a sick sort of sense to the hunter- he acknowledged that he and his brother were co-dependant on each other- it was just how they rolled. Family before everything else. They kept each other going. Kept each other human, after everything they'd been through.

"Cas," he began, not really certain what he was going to say – only that he felt he should say something.

"And now here I am," Castiel continued, cutting Dean off before he had put his thoughts together "cast back into a past that isn't even mine, forced to co-exist with someone who looks and talks like someone I had loved, but we're strangers to each other, aren't we? I sicken you, and you... you just remind me of everything that I once was. Everything that I had lost."

"You don't _sicken _me, Cas," Dean growled, launching himself up off the cot and whirling to face the fallen angel and continue his tirade - only to find himself suddenly shoved back against the wall beside the heavy steel door, bloodshot blue eyes drowning out his personal space, his senses awash in the scent of whiskey and gin, close enough to feel the angel's breath against his own skin.

He froze as the fallen angel closed the distance, his blood running cold as he willed himself to shove the disheveled shade of his friend away from him, only to find that he couldn't- that he in fact found himself hesitantly reciprocating, even. Yes, he wanted this. He had wanted this for some time, a desire pushed to the back of his mind as their friendship had grown, always closer, but not close enough to take that chance, to say 'what the hell' and just give it a try. Dean destroyed everything that he loved, and even at a distance, he had destroyed Castiel. His Castiel and the broken shell of the angel whose tongue he now had rammed down his throat, fighting for dominance over his own tongue. Part of him screamed that this was wrong, that this wasn't Castiel, that he didn't want _this_. But he did. And this was Cas, or at least a version of Cas. His angel was gone, torn apart in front of him in a reservoir.

This broken, world-weary man was all that was left of Castiel, the only remnant of the best friend he'd ever had outside of Sam and Bobby, and here he was now, living out one of the many idle daydreams he'd had over the years. Only, you know, kind of opposite roles, but so what?

He felt his anger at the situation drain away as he felt the fallen angel's cool fingertips slide beneath his t-shirt, and for a moment he let himself believe that it _was _his Cas. He placed his hands on the angel's narrow hips, drawing him against himself roughly as he fought back for control, shivering at the small, muffled cry that tapered off into a moan filled with sad longing. Something wet and salty mingled with the taste of whiskey on the fallen angel's lips, and Dean pulled away, suddenly remembering where he was and who he was with.

Castiel dropped his gaze, shaggy hair obscuring most of his face as he leaned over the hunter with his palms against the wall, panting softly.

"...Cas," Dean ventured tentatively, his tone carefully modulated.

"Leave me alone," the angel responded, pushing away from the wall and from Dean and returning to the cot, flopping down on his side like a moody teenager and pulling the thin blanket up over his head.

Dean sighed, watching the Cas-shaped lump and the steady rise and fall of his breathing for a long, silent moment before turning toward the door.

"I'll bring you down some lunch in a bit," he murmured numbly, still feeling the tingling after-effects of the kiss as he secured the door behind himself and ascended the stairs, still not entirely certain if he'd liked it or not (though he suspected that he did, and even after all these years harboring a crush on his best friend, it was fucking _weird_).


	9. Chapter 9

(**AN: **Been a while! Here's a new chapter finally :D Behold the angst! Oh, and um, warnings for the last part due to non-explicit um.. stuff.)

.

Cas laid back on the cot, staring up at the sigil-marked ceiling of the panic room as he allowed his mind to drift. The steady _whump, whump, whump _of the intake fan had become his only real company in the last few days since the almighty Dean Winchester had decreed that the heavy iron door was to be his guardian for the time being. He found himself missing human contact.

It wasn't that he as being ignored, not at all, in fact. Dean still brought him his meals and asked him how he was doing and had even brought him clean clothes, asking if he wanted to go out for a bit and get some fresh air. Cas, of course, refused. He felt like being petulant.

He didn't have any good explanation for his behaviour. So far as he could tell, he had been in Bobby Singer's home in this alternate past for just over two weeks, and in that time he had done little more than throw himself at the elder Winchester and make a constant spectacle of himself.

Since the day after his run-in with the law, and his last real interaction with Dean, he'd had a lot of time to reflect on his current position. For two days now, he had gone all his waking hours without the pain of withdrawal.

His hands still shook, and he craved substance of any kind in the worst way- but the wanting no longer caused him physical pain.

Perhaps that was a good thing.

He knew that he was being a complete dick, constantly pushing and pulling at Dean, trying to find the broken man that he was used to, the Dean of 2014.

He wanted the violence, he realized Wanted the familiarity of that frustration, Dean's voice pitched low in anger, or shame. He wants the painful indifference that falls between them when they aren't all rough hands and gnashing teeth.

What did that say about him, that he wanted nothing more than to be bruised, in body and spirit, but the man he loved? That he loathed the caring, comforting Dean of this time?

No, loathing was too strong. It wasn't loathing, or hatred. It was annoyance. No, not even that- this Dean frightened him, made him ashamed of his vices, and he didn't want that. He didn't want the pity, or the concern. It was too powerful to take, too much to know that this Dean still cared beyond the Mission- there was no Mission here.

Cas sighed, rolling to sit on the edge of the cot, staring at the door. There was no buffer here against the harshness of his reality. There was no Apocalypse, no Croats, no Lucifer; but he was still fallen, so fundamentally human, with human emotions and wants and needs, and it left a pit within him that felt deeper than the Marianna Trench, more vast and vacuous than the space between worlds, colder than the furthest reaches of the Solar system.

In short, he felt cold and worthless, and without the familiarity of the alcohol and the pills and the weed and the mind-numbing sex, he felt his humanity like a mantle weighing him down, pulling him into the Earth.

The compassion from Dean, Sam and... hell, even Bobby in his own way- it was going to kill him. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about him in any way beyond what was purely physical.

_"Cas," Dean's voice called to him from the beaded doorway leading into the room. "What the fuck, man?"_

_Cas didn't know any more how long they'd been at camp, but it seemed now as though they'd been there forever. The pills and the alcohol caused the days to blend together, and the women (and some men) blurred each moment into the next until days no longer mattered; there was awake, and there was asleep. The moments spent awake were spent either indulging or retrieving supplies from the scant resources left in the surrounding towns._

_He turned his face toward his Fearless Leader, but everything was so blurry and dark; he could barely make out the familiar shape standing with his arms crossed, staring coldly down at him._

_He had a damned good reason to be laid up at the moment, swimming in a haze of narcotics; he'd broken his damned foot two days before, and it hurt like hell. He wasn't going anywhere, so Dean could go fuck himself, and he told him so._

_Or, at least, he tried to. It seems as though he might have taken too much this time._

_Not that that was anything new. These days, once in a while, he liked to push his limits, to see how much he could take before he could no longer open his eyes to the world, before the weight of the world crushed him while he was too stoned to notice or care._

_"Are you trying to fucking kill yourself?" Dean was rifling through the empty bottles on his night stand now. The noise was irritating._

He was shaken from the memory by the shifting of the heavy bolts on the iron door.

_Must be visiting hours, _he thought bitterly.

"Hey," Sam greeted as he let himself in, carrying a chipped plate and a bottle of water.

Cas nodded his acknowledgement of the other man's presence, unable to bring himself to meet the younger Winchester's eyes. It was still too raw, too unfamiliar; this Sam who wasn't Lucifer, who had managed to beat the odds set against him by cosmic destiny and remain Sam Winchester.

Sam wasn't exactly comfortable with Cas, either. He could practically feel the chill coming off the former angel whenever he was in the room, his unwillingness to acknowledge him beyond a nod or a terse word or two. And honestly, he was too tired to try and fix it. He felt like he hadn't slept in a week, and to be honest he probably hadn't. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind inevitably woke him again. Lucifer's voice and face filled almost his every waking moment, and the tricks he had used before, pressing the scar in his hand, no longer worked to dispel the Devil.

"You look like hell," Cas said conversationally, watching the other man in his peripheral as he set the plate and bottle on the small table against the wall.

Sam blinked at him, giving a nervous laugh. "Yeah, well..." _you're one to talk, _he thought. True, the fallen angel looked better now than he had when he first dropped in on them; his wounds were pretty much healed and he no longer looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over. Not to mention the dark circles under his eyes and his waxy complexion had improved with a combination of kicking the dope and Bobby's cooking.

Cas looked at him thoughtfully, as though considering what had been left unsaid. Studying him now, he looked haunted. His eyes bore an unnatural shift, sunken into skin that looked pale and bruised in the false light of the room.

"So how did you get so lucky," Cas mused aloud. "What made this version of history so special?"

Sam was taken off guard by the cadence of the question, the bitterness that rippled beneath it.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you still said yes, right? You dragged Lucifer and Michael into the pit with you, and everything's just all sunshine and rainbows," Cas stood, hands on his hips, regarding the other with wry contemplation. "You and your brother changed destiny and brought down the Devil."

Sam rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, not really wanting to have this conversation.

_"In another time, you did this, Sam. I have to admit, I'm impressed. Look at what we did together, you and me. Least he got that stick out of his ass..."_

Sam grit his teeth, trying desperately to ignore the taunting voice of the figure he knew wasn't standing beside Cas in front of him, appraising the fallen angel like he was some work of art.

Cas didn't miss the younger man's wandering eyes, the way he stared intently into the space beside him. He couldn't help but glance to the side, following Sam's gaze.

_"Such a wounded creature. Really ought to be put out of his misery, don't you think?"_

Sam's eyes widened in horror as Lucifer disappeared, reappearing abruptly behind Castiel, a sickening, ripping, crunching pop drifting through the room as the tip of a silver blade appeared through the fallen angel's chest, right where his heart would be.

Cas' look of wide-eyed surprize, the trickle of blood that trailed from the corner of his mouth forced the air from Sam's lungs, his thoughts derailed momentarily.

This had never happened. This was beyond the usual hallucinations that kept him awake. Never before had Lucifer interacted with the physical world on this level. Was this real? Had he underestimated the Devil's presence?

"Cas! No!" He felt himself fly forward, gripping the fallen angel by his shoulders as he fell away from Lucifer's blade- only to be met with a bemused stare, cocked eyebrow and a very tense, very un-injured Cas radiating confused apprehension at Sam's sudden outburst.

Cas watched him as he let him go as though he were on fire, back pedaling so quickly he nearly fell on his ass. It would've been amusing if he hadn't at one time known Sam Winchester to be reserved, in control of his faculties, if not always heeding common sense.

"Are you all right?" It seemed like a stupid question, but he felt the need to say something to break the silent panic that filled the room, emanating from the young hunter.

"Fine, sorry," Sam murmured and excused himself from the room, fleeing up the stairs without securing the door fully.

Cas sighed, sitting down at the table and picking at the strip steak and mashed potatoes that he'd been brought, staring at the door and debating whether or not to take advantage of his potential freedom.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

It had been one of the warmer days of the season so far, and Dean wasn't about to let it go to waste. His baby needed a little TLC, and he now had her parked out in the yard, hood open as he replaced a couple of spark plugs and a valve that was getting a little too crusty for his liking.

It seemed like things were going from bad to worse lately, and being up to his elbows in grease alleviated some of that. It was a sort of meditation, and he was thankful as hell that Bobby'd put up with having all this bullshit around.

In addition to Marty McFly, Sam was slipping and sliding away from him in the worst kind of way. He could see it, how tired and jumpy his little brother had gotten over the last week or so, ever since the job in Worthing. Sam barely slept, barely ate, often nodding off in his Cheerios and jumping at nothing.

Dean had his suspicions. There was really only one explanation; Lucifer was in his head again, driving him nuts.

It had been months since Castiel had broken his wall and unleashed the memories of Hell. For a while, it'd seemed like Sammy had it all under control, able to dispel the Devil whenever he reared his head. But now, it seemed like that was all crashing down around him.

Dean had to wonder what had prompted it.

He had just set down the wrench and picked up one of the new plugs when he felt a pair of arms slide around his waist, a warm body pressing against his back.

Whirling, he was greeted by a catty grin beneath a mop of shaggy, dark brown hair.

"Cas!" Dean yelped, shoving the fallen angel back firmly but more or less gently, "What the fuck! Fuckin' rapey ninja-hippie, don't do that shit!"

Cas chuckled softly, leaning his hip against the frame of the car.

"What the hell are you even doing out here?" Dean sputtered, gaping at the other man as his heart beat it's way back down his throat and into his chest.

"Sam," Cas shrugged, picking up one of the spark plugs and examining it as he turned it over in his slender hands. "He's not right."

Dean stared at him, snatching the plug ot of his hands and turning to seat the plug in the cylinder. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean."

"Well," Cas breathed, getting handsy again and picking up the old valve that Dean had just replaced, picking at the carbon that coated it, "he just freaked out on me for no apparent reason, and then all but ran screaming back upstairs."

That got Dean's attention. He turned, looking up at Cas over his shoulder, scowling. "What the hell did you do to him?"

"You always assume the worst," Cas mused, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't do anything to him, though he was staring at something that I assume only he could see. He's in the study now, with Bobby. He seems... all right for the time being."

Dean huffed out a sigh, ratcheting the plug into place and replacing the wires and cap, stepping back to drop the hood.

Cas stepped back, getting out of the way as the hood fell into place with a heavy thunk of metal on metal. Dean stared at him as he wiped his hands down with a shop rag, looking him up and down with heavy scrutiny.

"You good now?" he asked. Cas was talking to him again, so he guessed that was something.

Cas shrugged in response. "If you mean 'am I going to run off and raid a bar', no. I'm not. Nor do I particularly feel like spending the rest of my life in that room, so I suppose this is an impasse."

Dean grunted, grabbing a beer from the cooler in the shade beneath the stairs.

He paused as he held his hand over the cap, preparing to twist it off, then thought better of it as he saw the fallen angel watching him. Or, rather, watching the bottle.

Cas surprised him, though, by drifting past him, back into the house.

Sighing, he tossed the bottle back into the cooler and followed into the kitchen, where the angel was now seated at the table.

"I owe you an apology, Dean," Cas said, not looking up at the hunter as he spoke.

"Yeah?" Dean huffed. "For which part? The part where you've been a complete asshole to everyone? Or how 'bout for constantly trying to molest me every chance you get? Or even better, on that note, for sticking your tongue down my throat the other night and then shutting me out?"

Cas raised an eyebrow at him, and he realised that what he'd just said didn't exactly convey what he'd meant. It had sounded like he'd _wanted _Cas to kiss him, and was just pissed that the fallen angel had turned his back on him afterwards.

He felt his face heat up, and turned away quickly to fill a glass of water from the tap.

"What do you want, Cas? I mean, really. I know you didn't ask to be stuck here, but you're here now, and I just don't know what the fuck to do with you."

"I don't _want _anything, Dean," Cas sighed, his tone not convincing in the slightest.

"Well, there's no Apocalypse here," Dean continued, "you could do whatever you wanted."

The look Cas turned on him stopped him dead in his tracks. It was painful, heartbroken and so completely weary and worn down. There was more, too, and Dean tried to ignore it but it was blaring so forcefully in the other man's eyes that it hit him like a sledge hammer.

There was longing, broken hope and an ache so deep that it pierced him.

Dean sighed, sitting down across from the fallen angel, watching him contemplatively.

"What were we," he asked, needing to know, "in that other future, what were we really? You looked like you couldn't stand each other, so what happened?"

Cas chuckled bitterly, looking away from Dean to focus on something across the room.

"You said I kissed you first," Dean probed, keeping his tone hushed so as not to carry to the adjoining room, "for fuck's sake, Cas, you were my best friend! What the hell happened?"

The fallen angel sighed, lifting bloodshot blue eyes to meet his again, all the false humor gone from them now, stripped down to the bare framework of the man he'd become. He looked lost, vulnerable and so utterly overwhelmed – but that weight of years still remained behind it all, all of that knowledge and experience of millennia of existence.

"We had nothing left to lose, I suppose," Cas said with a shrug. "And then the Mission took over, and there wasn't any room left for 'us'."

Dean sighed, taking stock of the other man for what felt like the first time. He'd never taken that plunge with his Cas. He didn't know if he ever would have, if given the chance – it just seemed too remote, and too against every fibre of his being to give in to that idle want. There had always been something about Castiel that had drawn him to the angel, no matter how he had fought it. Thoughts, feelings that he had forced down for the sheer _impossibility _of it all. Yet now, evidence of the contrary was staring him in the face. He _could _have had that, and the look in Cas' eyes said it all.

Before he had even formulated a thought about what he was doing, he had risen from his seat, moving around the table toward the fallen angel. Red flags shot through the back of his mind like an alarm; _what the fuck am I doing, _as he leaned down, tilting Cas' face upward with his fingers, pressing their lips together in a slow, tentative kiss.

Cas was shocked, not sure how to react to an advance that he hadn't initiated. It was too kind, to gentle, and it was almost cruel. He allowed it for a brief, painful moment before pushing Dean away gently with both hands.

"You don't want this," he murmured breathlessly.

The hurt look in Dean's expression was almost a physical blow. What had he expected, after flaunting it in his face these past weeks? He had wanted to get a rise out of the hunter, but this wasn't what he had expected. He hadn't anticipated that Dean might willingly reciprocate.

Dean bit his lip, his brain tying itself into knots trying to rationalize what he'd just done. The truth of the matter was, he _did _want this. Cas had, so he had thought, made it abundantly clear that it was there, that this could happen.

"Shut up," he said, though his tone wasn't quite what he wanted it to be. To make up for it, he leaned in again, and this time Cas went with it.

His Cas was gone, probably for good this time, and that hurt like a fucking bitch.

But at the same time, he'd been given an opportunity to sort some shit out, and here was this other Cas- another version that had once been the very same celestial being that had pulled his sorry ass out of hell, a Cas that he had failed in a future that had, thankfully, never come to pass.

It wasn't as though his life wasn't fucked up beyond belief as it was, so what the hell? Why not take what was given to him? Cas was broken, and it was his fault- but he could atone now. He could make things right and fix the mistakes that his counterpart had made. He could put his angel back together again.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Somehow, they had made it downstairs without Sam or Bobby being any the wiser.

That one kiss in the kitchen had opened a floodgate, and it hadn't taken long before Dean had to acknowledge they needed to be somewhere else, and the panic room seemed the most ideal.

Dean had never imagined how demanding and controlling Cas could be. He knew that the fallen angel had been a lascivious nymphomaniac in that other future, but it seemed as though the instant the panic room door was closed, their clothing had started disappearing as though they were being mojoed away.

He barely had a chance to catch his breath as he found himself laying on the cot, the former angel looming over him as their lips found each other once more, straddling his hips as they swallowed each other's moans.

He could hardly believe this was happening. Dean Winchester, lady's man extraordinaire, humbled and dominated by an ex-angel hippie. What was even weirder? Now that he was here, fingers tangled in dark hair as they moved together, nails raking across bare skin, he found he was oddly comfortable with it.

This was his angel, who knew him more intimately than anyone he had ever known him, inside and out- and who was more than eager to prove it.

Cas' cool, slender fingers sought out with surety places even Dean didn't know he liked, lightly tickling the flesh behind his ear, ghosting over a rib, nipping at his collar bone just so – he had never been with anyone who knew him so completely, and it was as unnerving as it was erotic.

Cas seemed content just to let Dean's hands wander over him, studying the way the fallen angel reacted to every touch, every caress; a slight shudder, a soft moan, a sudden gasp as he bore down when Dean drew his fingers up the others' spine.

He could do this forever, forgetting everything else; Sam's insanity, hunting, the world in general. He could spend hours mapping out ever inch of Castiel, from the mole on his left pectoral to the myriad scars that he'd acquired since becoming mortal, but it seemed that the fallen angel had other ideas.

To say it was the best sex Dean had ever had would probably be an unquantified overstatement, but he honestly couldn't remember the last time anything had come close. It was hot and electrically charged and rough bordering on violent, clawing and biting and marking each other. He'd had it rough before, but it was strange to see Castiel let loose like this, almost savage, and somehow that made it all the more erotic. It was almost a game, both of their frustrations beating against each other as they moved in time toward a climax that, as far as Dean was concerned, came all too soon.

As they lay together afterward, wrapped in each other beneath the threadbare comforter on the narrow cot, Dean couldn't help but feel completely sated, almost as though he'd been absolved of his sins – a weight lifted from him that he hadn't even known he carried.

He would have let these thoughts carry him off to sleep if not for the unsettling silence from his bedfellow and the slight trembling of the fallen angel's shoulders as he held him in his arms.

"Cas?" he called, quietly, brushing his fingers through dark hair.

The ex-angel tensed, fingers digging into the shoulder that once bore the mark of that same hand in a brand that had since faded but never disappeared completely, a soft, strangled sound muffled against his chest.

"Cas, hey," Dean tried, unsure, "you... you okay?"

"Why do you have to be so good," Cas murmured, the strain in his voice confirming that he was, in fact, crying.

Dean sighed, pulling his arms around the fallen angel a little tighter.

"I dunno, Cas," he sighed after a long moment. "God, how did I ever let you get so fucked up..."

Castiel laughed bitterly, threaded into a choked off sob, shaking his head.

"I'm so sorry, Cas," Dean murmured as he buried his face in the tangle of the angel's dark hair.

"Don't," the angel replied. "I don't want your pity, Dean. You didn't break me, the world did."

"I should've been there though," Dean argued. "I should've been there to catch you."

Cas sighed, relaxing against the hunter. "You did what you could."

Dean wanted to argue, to say that he could have done more – but he hadn't been there, had he? In a sense he had been, but he'd been too broken to do anything about his falling angel, had essentially left him to figure shit out on his own in a world he was unequipped to survive in.

That other Dean wasn't him, and never would be, but he wasn't above fixing what that other him had broken.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam was getting worse by the day, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Nothing worked anymore; the scar on his hand, listening to his iPod to drown out the constant noise, meditation, even getting stupid-drunk. Nothing could dispel the Devil.

He couldn't even remember what day it was anymore.

Since the hallucination in the panic room, Sam had all but avoided everyone else, keeping himself locked away in the guest bedroom. He had talked to Bobby after running back upstairs, had told him about the visions and the lack of sleep.

Bobby had promised to help, but really- what could anyone do to help _this_? How many people in the history of anything had Lucifer stuck in their head and come out as any sort of well-rounded for it?

Sam contemplated this as he stared up at the ceiling, laying on his back in bed, becoming numb to Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody as the Devil belted it out in its entirety for the umpteenth time today. He had to concede that Lucifer had a rather amazing singing voice, but that had ceased to matter days ago, because all he wanted was sleep.

"_Sam._"

"No," Sam groaned, turning over on his front and pulling the pillow up over his head. "Please, stop, go away..."

"_Come on, Sammy, we're having fun..."_

"Please just let me sleep, just for a few hours..."

_"But you're so _boring _when you're asleep."_

Sam groaned miserably, willing himself to sleep and blocking out the Devil's wheedling.

Whatever the reason, it seemed to work this time. He felt his muscles relax as he sunk into the bed in blissful silence, letting the darkness take him.

The reprieve was short-lived.

Sam had only just begun to drift away when someone started pounding on the door. Groaning, he rolled away from the sound. More than likely he was just imagining it, anyway.

"Sammy!" Dean's voice boomed through the thin wood. "Open up, we need to talk!"

He felt like crying. Dean had been pretty pre-occupied with Cas the last couple of days, checking in every few hours, but otherwise spending almost every waking moment with the fallen angel. What was so important now, when Sam was finally on the verge of getting some much-needed rest?

Apparently he was going to find out whether he wanted to or not, as Dean had just let himself in.

"What," he whined sleepily, rolling onto his back with a sigh of resignation, "I was almost asleep."

Dean folded his arms across his chest, standing over the bed with a dark expression that Sam couldn't read. _Well, _he thought, _that's disconcerting._

"Sammy," Dean said, shifting his eyes to the window, "there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just gonna put it out there."

Sam frowned, pulling himself up to sit against the head-board of the bed. "What's up," he asked tentatively. Already he didn't like where this was going. He hadn't heard that tone from Dean since they'd split just before the Apocalypse, and now it sent cold tendrils of worry snaking through his intestines.

Dean sighed, still not meeting his eyes. "I can't do this anymore, man. You're too fucked up even for me to deal with, so I'm breaking up the band."

"Uh, what?" Sam stared at his brother, dumb-struck, his heart shattering in his chest.

"Me and Cas are getting' the hell out of here. Broken as he is, he's a hell of a lot more stable than _you _are at the moment. Plus, better benefits, if you know what I mean," Dean grinned lecherously at the implication and - oh my God, Dean was banging Cas and just Jesus fucking Christ why did that make so much sense?

"Point is," Dean continued, "right now, you're completely fucking useless, and I can't deal with you anymore."

"Dean," Sam began, but he really just didn't know what to say to that. How were you supposed to respond to your brother telling you, basically, you're getting dumped?

"No way, Sam," Dean cut him off before he could put his thoughts together. "I'm done with your shit, okay? Can't live my life chained up to my crazy little brother forever. I've already given up enough for you. Shit, I died and went to _Hell _for you, and you went off the rails drinking fucking demon blood. Then you start the goddamn Apocalypse, and after I waste a year of my life trying to get by in Suburbia while you're off with the goddamn Campbells and I don't even fucking know you're alive? You don't get to argue with me, Sammy, I'm done. I've wasted thirty fucking years on you, looking after you like dad told me to. I'm sorry, man, but that's just how it's gotta be."

"So much for family, then, huh?" Sam half laughed, his voice tight with the emotion that was trying to force it's way up his barbed throat.

"Family?" Dean's eyebrows shot up, giving Sam an incredulous look. "Dude, we haven't been a 'family' since you turned your fucking back on me for Ruby. You wanna know what my biggest regret is?"

Sam didn't want to know.

"Dragging you out of Stanford. I coulda found dad on my own, and I wish I'd just left you there. Hell, sometimes I wish you'd never been born, man. Mom'd still be alive, and Dad'd never gotten into hunting. You poison everything you touch, Sammy."

Sam blinked to clear his suddenly clouded eyes, trying to retain a shred of dignity in the face of the onslaught. "Anything else you wanna unload while you're at it, Dean?"

The elder Winchester regarded the younger for a moment, arms crossed, jaw flexing beneath the cold look in his eyes. "Yeah, actually," he nodded, "I kinda wish you'd just stayed in the cage."

Sam drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He felt numb, abused, swimming in the icy cold darkness of every fuck up he'd ever made thrown in his face by the one person he'd thought he could count on. The one person who'd always been there for him, who was now turning his back, a wall of spite and regret thrown up between them.

"Okay, Dean," Sam breathed, "okay. I get it. I'm sorry. Uh, I'm glad... you know, you've got Cas and stuff."

He tried on a smile that seemed to fight his efforts, turning away as his vision blurred.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "See ya, Sammy."

And that was that. Dean was gone, and Sam had never felt more alone.

[XXXXXX]

Dean growled in frustration, hunched over the what seemed like millionth musty tome he'd read that day as he sat at the kitchen table.

Things were looking hopeless, more and more like the kind of help Sam needed was the security of four walls and a locked door. Dean didn't want to give up hope, though – he wouldn't. Sam was his little brother. He would always look out for Sammy, no matter what.

Bobby had been on and off the phone all day, calling up his contacts, searching for any kind of spell or charm or healer or whatever that might help the younger Winchester's affliction. They could both see the damage done as Sam withered away, his mind slipping further every day.

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when a plate of grilled cheese and a bottle of beer were sat down beside him and cool, slender fingers stroked over his shoulders, massaging away some of the kinks that had been knotting up in his neck over the last couple of days. If there was one thing to be said about Cas, it was that he had amazing hands.

Sighing, he pushed the book away to join the growing pile to his right and picked up one of the triangles of bread and cheese, taking an obligatory bite. He didn't feel particularly hungry, but he'd already had that conversation with Cas the day before and so conceded.

Cas smiled, pleased that Dean wasn't putting up a fight about taking a short break. He nabbed half of a sandwich for himself as he sat in the chair beside the hunter, nibbling it thoughtfully as he watched Dean masticate. He'd never really gotten over the staring habit, Dean noticed, and now that he was sober, his blue eyes were just as intense as he'd remembered from when the man had still been an angel.

"Still nothing?" Cas asked rhetorically, knowing from the set of Dean's shoulders and the black look on his face that no progress had yet been made. "You know, I could help if I knew more about what happened. I can still read every language ever written, and Bobby has quite a few Sumarian and Greek texts."

Dean sighed. He had pointedly avoided telling Cas what had broken Sam's head, only that since being returned from the Cage, Sam hadn't been quite right, had suffered hallucinations. There was no telling how the fragile former-angel would take the news that it had been his counterpart that had caused the worst of it, breaking the wall that Death had put in place to hold back the memories of hell. Cas was doing better the last few days, more like his old self (albeit distinctly more human and retaining his questionable sense of humour). Dean was hesitant to throw that under the bus with the knowledge that, in another timeline, he had been responsible for Sam coming to harm.

The angel kept watching him, however, blue eyes searching green for some indication of how he could help. That was the other thing, the thing that tore him on whether or not to tell him. Cas had a complex. He was convinced he was more or less useless, and only seemed to shine either when he was doing something helpful, or... well, the other part was just between them.

Sighing, Dean put down the remaining half of his grilled cheese, lacing his hands on the table in front of him. He didn't really know where to begin, but Cas did have a point. Looking through some of the other-language texts would be a big help, and Sam's time was running out.

"When … when other-you," God that sounded ridiculous, "when he pulled Sammy out of Hell, after the Apocalypse, Sam's soul stayed in the cage..."

Cas winced, looking down at the table. This was harder to talk about than Dean had realised.

"After I figured it out, I made a deal with Death to pull his soul out and stick it back where it belonged," he continued after a measured beat, "but it was all fucked up, and Death put a wall up in his head to keep the bad shit out."

"But the wall broke," Cas guessed, everything making some sort of sense now. Sam had always been the more rational one, if more hesitant. The idea of Sam going mad like this hadn't really connected.

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he sighed, "Castiel broke it to distract me when we tried to stop him cracking open Purgatory."

Cas went still. Like, statue-still. Angel-still. After spending the last couple of weeks with this version of the angel, it jarred Dean somewhat, like he'd nearly forgotten what he had been.

"Why the fuck would I want to open Purgatory," Cas asked. He couldn't imagine doing something so reckless, so stupid, even despite his rebellion.

Dean sighed. "You'd made a deal with Crowley. You were fighting Raphael in Heaven and I guess you were losing. You did it, though- you busted Purgatory wide open and took all those souls, turned yourself into a real fucking monster."

He paused to take in the fallen angel's reaction. Cas was just staring at the wall, jaw flexing, brow furrowed as he processed this information.

"I take it that's how my counterpart died," he said quietly after a long moment of consideration.

Dean nodded, staring down at his hands. "Yeah, it was. He eventually came to us for help. He'd burned himself out, all those souls were killing him... We got the souls back, but these things, the leviathans, they hung on... and... they took him, possessed his vessel- I … I think they swallowed him up... and then he was just gone..."

Cas just stared as Dean half mumbled the story. He'd never seen the hunter act this way, as though he was afraid of the sound of his own voice, and that was worrisome. Though, after having heard the story, things made a little more sense. Oddly, he didn't find himself feeling guilty for his counterpart's actions, which was kind of strange. Technically, it had been him that had done these things, but then it hadn't been. It had been him in another timeline, another set of circumstances. He saw where the idea might have come from, using the power of the souls to super-charge his Grace, make himself a match for that dick Raphael, but it was folly. He must have been desperate to resort to risking it. And now, there were leviathan on Earth, some of the oldest and most feared of God's creations.

He leaned forward, brushing the back of his fingers against Dean's cheek as he leaned forward, giving the hunter a brief, chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth which seemed to bring him back.

With a thin smile, Dean shrugged, pulling himself back to the present. "So yeah, that's pretty much what happened... and now Sammy's got Lucifer torturing him inside his head. Hallucinations, anyway. We had it under control for a while, but over the last week he's gotten worse again."

"I don't suppose you've, ah, asked Death on the matter?" Cas asked quietly.

Dean let out a thin, strained laugh. "No way, man. He pretty much told me if he ever saw me again after last time he'd reap my ass on the spot."

Cas nodded. "Well, I suppose I should start looking... perhaps there's a spell that could repair the damage to Sam's soul somewhere."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean said honestly, holding the fallen angel's eyes for a moment.

"You should go check on him."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. He was afraid of disturbing Sam, for fear that the kid might actually be getting some kind of rest when he goes to check on him, but he can't help worrying. It's his job as the big brother. Look out for Sammy.

Parting ways with the fallen angel in the library, Dean ascended the stairs toward the guest bedroom, pausing before rapping his knuckles lightly the door.

After a moment and no answer, he turned the handle and pushed it open slowly.

"Sammy?"

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, staring numbly at the Glock in his hands. He didn't look up when Dean came in, almost as though he wasn't aware of his presence. Dean wondered if it wasn't some kind of fucked up sleep-walking brought on by the sleep deprivation and hallucinations, but the speculation didn't stop him from striding across the room as Sam raised the gun. He had no intention of finding out what Sam intended to do with the weapon, clocking his brother hard in the face and snatching the gun away from the younger man.

"Sammy, what the fuck, man!"

Sam seemed to snap out of his trance, staring up at Dean like he didn't fucking know his own brother. The lost look in his eyes fucking broke Dean's heart, but not as much as the hurt and guilt that followed.

"What are you doing here," Sam asked in a voice that was way too small for the Sasquatch Dean knew.

"What the fuck do you mean, what am I doing here, Sam?" Dean seethed. "I'm your fucking _brother_, I'm not going anywhere!"

Sam froze, their gazes locked- Sam's searching, confused, and so fucking tired; Dean's enraged, terrified and half hysterical.

"Were you about to put that fucking gun to your head, Sammy?" Dean demanded, even though he was pretty sure he didn't actually want to hear it.

Sam just looked away, his breath quickening as though something profoundly devastating had just occurred to him.

"It wasn't you," he panted, the colour draining from his face, "it wasn't you, Dean, it was him... I..."

Dean watched his little brother fall to pieces right there in front of him, and he felt fucking helpless. Sam was slipping away, and for a moment there, if he'd come up just a minute later, he'd have been fucking gone.

"Fucking moron," Dean chided, though his tone was soft, "don't you ever, _ever _pull that shit again!"

Dean made a show of removing the bullets from the gun and throwing it across the room.

Sam stared at his hands, flinching at something – though whether it was Dean's ire or something that only Sam could see, Dean didn't know. Didn't want to know. All he knew is that he needed to keep Sammy safe.

"Come on," Dean sighed, reaching out to take Sam's arm, "let's get you downstairs. I need you somewhere you can't hurt ourself."

Sam broke at that, and suddenly his little brother was ten years old again, wondering why their life was so fucked up, why they couldn't just be normal, as Dean struggled in vain to assure him everything was all right, that they were family and family stuck together.

Dean almost wished the Devil really was there, because then at least he could find a way to rip the bastard apart for hurting his little brother.

.

(**AN: **I'm sorry ;_; I hope that didn't hurt too much... Drop me a review and let me know what you think of the story so far!)


	11. Chapter 11

Bobby sat hunched over his desk, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he attentively took down the information being dictated to him through the line. It was the first bit of good news they'd had since Sam had started going haywire, the first lead of any kind.

It was almost too much to hope for, but Bobby knew Mackey, had worked with the man a couple of times. If Mackey was vouching, then it was better than slim chances, and they needed that right about now.

"So," Bobby engaged, "where do we find this 'Emmanuel' fella?"

"Heard best way is to go through his wife, Daphne, up in Colorado," the disembodied voice of Don Mackey revealed. "I went up there, tell her I'm goin' blind - s'true. Right eye's all blown out. She tells me 'go home and he'll come'. He shows and I put him through every test I can think up-= clean as a whistle. Guy's the genuine article, Bobby."

"Hell," Bobby sighed, "I'll take just about any kinda miracle I can get right about now. Gimme that address again?"

He jotted it down as the other man relayed it, confirming it twice to be sure.

"Thanks, Mack," Bobby said sincerely "I sure appreciate you callin' back."

"No problem," Mackey replied. "You've come through for me plenty o'times, old man. Just hope it's what you and your boys're lookin' for."

Bobby felt himself smile as he set the phone back on its cradle, scrubbing a hand over his beard to try and quell the premature hope that was threatening to bubble up from his chest, oblivious to the fallen angel seated in the arm chair to his right.

"Good news?" Cas prodded when Bobby didn't say anything for a long moment.

They had formed a sort of uneasy truce in Dean's absence. Dean had conceded that Sam needed more help and supervision than could be found at Singer Salvage, taking his brother to Sioux Falls General that morning. The younger Winchester had sided with Bobby early on, not wanting to be a burden to anyone in his current state as his brother and his friend worked out a way to fix him. And so, two against one, Dean gave in.

Bobby glanced over at the ex-angel sprawled across the arm chair; legs slung over one side as he lounged with his back against the other with an ancient leather-bound Hindu tome spread out in his lap. Sighing, he sat back in his chair, staring down at the information on the healer that Mackey had given him.

"Healer down in Colorado," Bobby supplied after a moment's consideration. "Friend of mine says he might be able to work some kinda healin' hoodoo on Sam."

Cas raised an eyebrow. From his knowledge, human 'healers' were generally white witches, or not human altogether. There had been very few incidents in history apart from the Messiah himself who had ever been gifted with the power to heal others, and the second coming was nowhere near on the horizon that he knew of, despite what many faith groups thought.

"Sounds sketchy," the fallen angel responded. "Do you believe it's legitimate?"

"Shit, I dunno! Couldn't hurt nothin' worse by tryin' though."

Cas nodded, placing a marker carefully in the book and closing it, righting himself and setting the tome aside. "And this 'Emmanuel', he's human?"

Bobby eyed the other man dubiously, nodding hesitantly. "Far as can be told. Ain't a demon, or a witch or anything, far as Mackey could tell. Passed every test that was thrown at'im."

Castiel frowned, considering this. Emmanuel, a healer. He couldn't shake the feeling that it meant something, that the connection was profound in some way. A name from prophecy, ancient and revered as the name of Christ.

"Are you going to call Dean?"

Bobby looked at the angel for a long moment before sighing. Dean was desperate to save his brother, would probably jump at the idea, but Bobby'd rather speak to him face to face, first, have a real conversation about it. Even with Mackey's endorsement, it was risky bringing someone in from the outside like this.

But really, it was the best shot they had.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

It wasn't three hours before the Impala was on 76 heading West towards Colorado.

Castiel was somewhat surprised by Dean's decision to ask him along, despite the fact that they had reconciled their differences for te most part, but he supposed it made sense. Before the Apocalypse, the elder Winchester had rarely spent time so completely alone, had at least the ability to contact Sam.

Now, however, Sam was unreachable, formally admitted to a hospital for his own safety. Dean still had Bobby, but the old man was needed in Sioux Falls. Honestly, Cas was kind of glad to be out of that house. The memories were bittersweet, and he was getting a bit stir crazy in any case. Being out on the open road, the weather fair and clear, window rolled down with the cool air weaving through his hair – it was liberating. It had been so very long since he had felt this free, this untethered.

In his time, there were no 'road trips'. Missions were kept as close to camp as possible, lest they stray too far and find themselves in need of shelter. Eventually resources would have dried up, forcing them to expand, but no one liked the thought of being left out in Croat Country overnight. It just wasn't done. No one drove with the windows down, either, and Cas relished it now. It felt something like flying.

"Dude, keep your fucking head in the car," Dean chided playfully, "you're like a freakin' labrador or somethin'."

Cas turned to lean his arm out the window, leaning his head in his hand, one eyebrow arched high, a vague smile on his lips as he gave the hunter a self-satisfied look. "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

Dean stared at the fallen angel until the turtles on the side of the road called his attention back to the blacktop. "... Did you just quote scripture at me?"

"Matthew 6:34."

"I thought didn't buy that crap anymore?"

Cas rolled his eyes, sighing heavily in response. "Whether or not the scripture is based in fact, it doesn't make it any less poetic or true," he said. "Besides, just because I fell doesn't mean that I've become ignorant to everything I've ever known. It's difficult to renounce the existence of certain biblical aspects of the universe when one was once an angel of the Lord."

"Touche," Dean conceded.

They settled into a comfortable silence, and for a moment Dean was smiling. It was desperately needed, all things considered. Cas knew that his presence hadn't been easy to deal with, and Sam's ailment had stretched Dean to his breaking point.

The news of the healer had been the only thing that had kept the hunter from breaking after he'd taken Sam to the hospital. He clung to it, the hope that this mystery man might heal his brother. They both knew it was the only thing keeping Dean from screaming himself unconscious in the face of everything he had endured over the last few weeks.

Despite that it was only a ten hour drive, Dean conceded to exhaustion halfway through, pulling into a motel on the outskirts of North Platte, Nebraska shortly after eleven that night. Cas had offered to drive the last leg, but the hunter shot him down, saying the only way he'd let the angel behind the wheel of his Baby is if he was dead, and no offense.

Cas was almost disappointed when they entered the room to find that Dean had booked a room with two beds, wondering if that meant they would be sleeping separately that night. He could understand if Dean decided he wanted his space. He had, after all, just admitted his brother to inpatient care that morning, and he was visibly tired.

His worries were quickly abated after the door was closed and bolted, however, and Dean slid his arms around Cas from behind, resting his chin on the former angel's shoulder.

"Thanks for comin' with me, Cas," he sighed softly. "I just..."

Cas understood, letting his hunter know by silencing him with his own lips.

Things escalated quickly from there. Even though Dean was bone tired and soul hurt, all of this with Cas was still so new it over-rode everything else. There was something almost narcotic about the ex-angel, something that overwhelmed his senses to the point that nothing else really mattered outside of that moment, all of his worries and heartache pushed aside until he was ready to face it all again.

They moved as one, pulling at each other's jackets, lips parting only to pull t-shirts off over their heads and then they were falling together, crashing onto the firm, squeaky mattress of the bed furthest from the door.

Cas was efficient, liberating Dean from his jeans and boxers as soon as the hunter had his boots kicked off, the pair of them equally unclothed not long after.

One of the things that surprised Dean the most about this future Castiel, still, was how unabashed he was. He took, possessing every inch of him, reducing him to a shivering mess of excited nerves with every feather light touch. It was so unlike the Castiel of this timeline; quiet and reserved and just so... _prude. _Cas, this Cas was anything but. He was practiced, confident and _so fucking dominant._

Dean felt he should probably feel threatened by another man owning him in this way, but this was Cas, the angel who had sprung him out of the pit. If ever there was anyone he trusted, it would be the being that had dragged him back into the world of the living, put his ass back together and proceeded to fucking _die _for him, _twice._ Honestly, it felt kind of awesome to let someone else take the reigns, to just go with the flow and let the chips fall.

Besides. Falling asleep afterwards with his arms wrapped around the fallen angel, spent and sated, Dean never felt more at peace, free from the burdens of his life and the nightmares that accompanied it.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

Cas was being a real bitch when they headed out for the last leg of their trip to Colorado.

Sitting in the passenger seat now as they turned back onto the highway and headed South, long, slender fingers wrapped around a cup of crap gas station coffee, Dean noticed that he didn't look great. The dark circles were back under his eyes, as though he hadn't slept well the night before, head leaned back against the back rest as he slumped in his seat, looking generally miserable.

He had snapped at Dean every time the hunter asked if he was all right, if he needed anything.

"I don't need you mothering me, Dean," the ex-angel huffed in annoyance. "I'll be fine. Just leave me the fuck alone."

"Jeez, fine," Dean countered, scowling at his companion, "fuck you very much, too."

Cas rolled his eyes as he finished putting himself together, heading immediately for the motel room door.

"Hey!" Dean called after him.

"I'm just going to go sit in the car. I need some air," he assured. "Not like I'm gonna run off and get loaded."

Dean winced. They'd been doing great for days, and he had no fucking clue what had prompted the sudden attitude.

Maybe Cas was just having a bad day. He had no idea how this shit worked beyond what he and Sam had read up on via the internet. He had kinda hoped that this bullshit was over, but it seemed like the fallen angels emotions swung on a pendulum.

He sorely hoped that the ex-angel mellowed the fuck out, though. He wasn't sure five hours in the car with him was conducive to not strangling the cranky son of a bitch if this shit kept up.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

_The cloying scent of incense hung heavy in the air of the closed cabin, mingling with the pungent oder of pot and opium, the candles casting long, looming shadows; the perfect atmosphere for a 'spiritual connection'. _

_The four women seated around him in the circle listened with rapt attention, though he wondered if they truly heard his words. Not that it mattered. It was all bullshit anyway, just another false comfort in the face of cold reality, another drug to ease the pain. Words were power, and he held them all in the palm of his hand._

_He smiled, wearing a mask of peace, reinforced by the Valium and the opium and the whiskey. He had become many things since coming to camp; hippie, therapist, advisor, strategist, a warm shoulder to cry on. He faked happy for the sake of others. It didn't fill the void, but it dulled the pain._

_He fed them some crap about group mind, shared perception, connecting the soul through the body, and they just soaked it up. Thrived on it, because faith carries humanity through the worst. Faith is the singular most powerful force known to man._

_He was shaken from his monologue by a shadow crossing his door; a familiar shape that he hadn't seen in that place in months, a pair of green eyes staring at him in bemused curiosity, wide and vibrant and … off. He swallowed down his hope that perhaps Dean had developed an interest in him again._

_"__Oh. Excuse me, ladies. I think I need to confer with our Fearless Leader for a moment. Why not go get washed up for the orgy?"_

_He watched the girls leave the room, the opium smiling through his lips._

_Standing, stretching out the kinks from remaining seated on the hard wooden floor, he turned to face Dean, almost dreading to hear what had brought the Fearless Leader to him now, after so long of pretending that his extra-curricular activities didn't exist._

_"__What are you, a hippie?" Dean asked incredulously, seeming genuinely bewildered._

_He chuckled, smiling his big plastic smile. "I thought you'd gotten over trying to label me."_

_"__Cas," Dean said, a touch of desperation to his tone, "we gotta talk."_

_He came in close, breaching that 'personal space', just to see if he could get away with it. It was sort of a game; see how many buttons he can push before setting off the bomb. Though, this close... something definitely wasn't right. There were scars missing, his stance was wrong, his eyes lacked the hard, cold edge that had crept in over the last few years._

_"__Woah, strange," he understated._

_"__What?"_

_"__You're not you," he said. "Not now you, anyway."_

_"__No!" Dean blurted, exasperated. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly."_

_He was blown for a loop. This Dean, a Dean from long before that still held some hope within his soul. Part of him wanted to push, to test, to take action and see what this Dean would react to, to see if, just perhaps..._

_"__What year are you from?"_

_"__2009."_

_"__Who did this to you, was it Zachariah?" Perhaps, just perhaps there was an avenue out of this shit hole Apocalypse, if the angels were back..._

_"__Yeah."_

_"__Interesting."_

_"__Oh yeah," Dean surged, throwing his arms into the air, "it's fuckin' fascinating. Now, why don't you strap on your angel wings and fly me back to my own page on the calendar?"_

_He shook his head, laughing at the thought. Of course, in 2009 he'd still been an angel. He'd still been able to move through multi-dimensional space, travel through time. This Dean didn't know that, of course. In 2009, Lucifer still hadn't taken his vessel. The world was falling apart, but it wasn't yet the mess that it had now become._

_"__I wish I could just, uh, strap on my wings," he said, shoving down the sadness that accompanied the memory of that morning in Bobby's house, "but I'm sorry. No dice."_

_Dean stared at him closely, seeming to size him up. "What, are you stoned?"_

_"__Uh," he grinned, raising his eyebrows at the man's naivity, "generally, yeah."_

_"__What happened to you?" The sadness in Dean's eyes gave him pause. What had happened to him? He had fallen so far. Further than merely the loss of his Grace and his wings. He knew he was a wreck, a shell. Broken even by human standards._

_It wasn't any mystery how he'd ended up here. He had free fallen from the sky and straight into a hell of his own making. He didn't know how to catch himself. No one else had stood to break his fall._

_"__Life," he said. Because in the end, that's all it came down to. Life, and his inability to cope with it._

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

He opened his eyes and wished he hadn't. They were up in the mountains, the air thin and cool and, the afternoon sun breaking through the sparse clouds, casting weak shadows through the budding leaves of the trees. The shifting light did nothing for his headache.

Maybe it was the confined space, sitting in one place for too long. His muscles ached, tension coiled tight beneath his skin. He wasn't coping well today. Everything was ire and irritation, even the sound of Dean's voice grating on him.

"Morning sunshine," Dean glanced over him, raising an eyebrow as he pulled himself up with a grimace. "You get that bug outta your ass, or are you still bein' a pissy little princess?"

Cas huffed out a bitter laugh. He hadn't meant to be such a dick, but his head had pounded all morning. "I suppose I feel somewhat better," he said, "I'm sorry. I was feeling a bit off this morning."

"Well, shake it off," Dean rumbled, turning his attention back to the road as he pulled off the freeway, "we're almost at the dude's house."

Cas pulled himself up in his seat, watching out the window as the dense trees gave way to houses and shops and restaurants; the idyllic picture of humanity thriving, living. It was beautiful.

Neither of them spoke as they pulled up in front of the large white house half hidden by trees, surrounded by the low stone wall on the cozy little cul-de-sac, the silence stretching as they gazed up at the home of the man who might just be Sam's last hope.

.

(**AN: **Hey! Sorry for the long pause between updates. I've been busy with getting ready to move and stuff... I'm gonna try and get at least one up before I head out of my crappy apartment for a less crappy apartment, but idk when I'll have my internet back on, so there might be a short hiatus once I get into the new place.)


	12. Chapter 12

(**AN: **As an apology (I'm not _really _sorry) for leaving you guys on such a terrible cliffhanger (I really couldn't help myself), I busted my ass to give you guys a little more today ;)

.

Dean had the sinking sensation that something wasn't quite right as he stared up at the big white house.

It wasn't anything tangible, nothing he could see or define, just something seemed _off _about the whole thing, like stale air before a storm. The neighborhood seemed just like any white-collar American suburb, clean and well maintained, a Prius in every driveway. It might be nothing, but then again it might not; Dean had learned to trust his instincts over the years.

"Well," Cas said from beside him, leaning forward to follow Dean's gaze through the driver's side window, "are you going to go knock on the door, or are we going to camp here and stalk the guy?"

Dean gripped the wheel, steadying himself. They'd driven all this way. Even if it wasn't what they were looking for, even if it was a trap, or a hoax - Dean had to find out, he had to know. He couldn't just drive away without knowing if he had any chance to save Sammy or not.

Letting out a long sigh, he let go of the wheel, moving to open the door... and froze.

The front door of the house had opened, a man with dark hair, dressed inconspicuously in a black fleece jacket and grey slacks stepping out onto the porch and locking the door behind him, turning to jog down the steps toward them. The guy looked so ordinary, so mundane. There was just no freakin' way.

The man stopped at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the car with a curious tilt of his head, and Dean freaked. He gunned the engine, almost flooding it as he hit the gas, peeling out on the asphalt as he got the hell out of there as fast as he could. If there was one thing that Dean couldn't handle right now, it was this. He didn't believe in coincidence - not like this.

Because he had watched Castiel die in the reservoir, and there was no fuckin' way he was in Colorado, living some apple pie life in a freakin' mansion with a wife and a lawn and moonlighting as a healer. There was _no way_. Not after everything.

He was oblivious to the fallen angel sitting passenger side as his mind raced through the possibilities of what it could be; Leviathan, Shifter, Jefferson Starship, Fairies? Fuck. Dean didn't know, but he'd learned never to take anything at face value, and if it seemed too good to be true, then it probably was.

And even if it _was _Cas, how was he going to explain the doppelgänger situation to the angel? And what if it wasn't even Cas, but Jimmy? What if it was Cas and he'd stayed away because Dean didn't look for him, didn't pull him out of the reservoir, what if... what-

"_Dean_," Cas all but shouted at him, his attention fully on the hunter. "Pull over."

Dean complied numbly, pulling off over to the curb beside a small copse of pine trees just a few blocks from the house, knuckles white on the wheel as Cas reached over and turned the ignition off. He didn't even notice, too focused on what he had seen and, wasn't that just his freakin' life? Always complicated, always one messed up situation after another.

"Dean," the fallen angel addressed him again, watching him closely. Cas could see the soul crushing fear in the other man's eyes. He'd barely caught a glimpse as they sped away from the house, but it was enough to see why Dean had flipped out. "We should go back and see. I know what you're thinking, and if he is... an imposter, then shouldn't he be dealt with?"

Dean grit his teeth, jaw flexing in irritation. An imposter would be easy, but if it was the real deal, then it would be complicated. Dean hated complicated, and this was getting beyond complicated. Bobby'd said the guy had passed every test in the book, said he was human, but there was no way this guy was human.

"Dean," Cas said again, and Dean swore if he didn't just fucking stop for a minute and let him think...

A knock came at the driver's side window, causing the hunter to jump in his seat, jerking the wheel as he twisted toward the source.

His blood ran cold, but before he could think, Cas opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He stared at the other man over the top of the car for a long, tense moment; taking every detail from the look of shock on his face to the most minute of details - every line, every feature exactly as he remembered from his own reflection, minus about four years of hard living and copious drug use. The confusion in his eyes was unmistakable, but then neither was the curiosity - or the faint hum of _something else_ beneath the other man's skin, something both exciting and longed for. Something that Cas hadn't felt since the day the angels left.

He unabashedly moved around the front of the car, hands stuffed in his pockets as he sized up his counterpart, hoping in vain to see what lay within the vessel, a glimpse of what he'd lost and longed for all this time. It was painful, but at the same time, he found that he couldn't resist getting closer, crowding the other man's personal space.

"Who- _what _are you?" the man allegedly calling himself Emmanuel breathed. His discomfort was obvious, his reaction seeming all wrong - backing up several steps as Cas got closer. Cas tilted his head to one side, curiously, not sure what to make of the other man's fear. He could _feel _his Grace thrumming around the man, powerful and almost tangible; an electric aura barely contained within the frail human body that held it.

Surely 'Emmanuel' could see him for what he was, right?

Dean got out of the car a moment later, watching the stare down between the two relative mirror images. Talk about freaky. _One_ Cas was usually weird enough; two was just freaking bizarre. Granted, at this point, they were two completely different people, but just the thought that they had once been exactly the same person up until that one, critical moment when history had split apart into two separate realities was enough to make Dean's head spin, more so than when he'd been faced with his own double.

"You, uh," Dean said awkwardly, "you Emmanuel Allen?"

The man wearing Castiel's face turned toward Dean, his expression reminding him of the look of sheer terror that had been on his face when he'd brought the angel to a brothel, years ago. The uneasy feeling in his stomach didn't dissapate, however, as he began to realise that if this even _was _Castiel, odds were he didn't remember a damned thing, because the way the guy was looking at him, looking at _both _of them, bore no recognition whatsoever.

"I'm Emmanuel, yes," he responded, once he remembered how words worked. "Were you looking for me?"

"Well," Dean cleared his throat, deciding that for now, the best course of action would be to play this off, "yeah, I um... I was told you might be able to help my brother." He hoped Cas picked up on the cue.

'Emmanuel' turned toward Cas again, eyeing him questioningly. "You're in pain," he said bluntly.

"Aren't we all?" Cas shrugged, and _damn _this was so freaking weird, hearing the same voice coming from two different mouths. If Dean had to deal with this much longer, his head might explode. He really, _really _freaking hated time travel.

"Why did you run when I came outside? How long had you been sitting there?" Of course the dude was all questions now, questions that Dean didn't have the finesse to answer.

"Dean has a tendency to be shy," Cas supplied, giving the hunter a look out of the corner of his eye. "I guess he freaked when he saw you. Can't say I really blame him - kind of feels a bit like the _Parent Trap_, doesn't it?"

Emmanuel frowned, scrunching his eyes in that familiar way, and Dean could almost hear him thinking 'I don't understand that reference'.

"Come back with me to my house," he said after a long, contemplative moment, "we can speak in comfort and privacy. You must have driven quite a ways."

Dean almost said no, but one look from Cas and he knew that he couldn't. Whatever was going on here, whoever - or _what_ever - Emmanuel turned out to be, they had come here for Sammy, and his needs came before anything else right now. He had to see this through, for better or worse.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

If anyone had thought things would get less awkward once they were seated in the living room of the old, post-colonial house, they were sorely mistaken.

Nobody spoke as their host set two mugs of coffee on the table, taking a seat in the arm-chair across from where Dean and Cas sat on the couch. The fallen angel and his look-alike stared at each other openly, each seeming to find the other endlessly fascinating.

"So, uh," Dean began, trying to break the ice, "nice house. You lived in Colorado long?"

Emmanuel smiled, brightening a bit at the distraction from his impossible twin. "A little over half a year, maybe? Daphne, my wife, she owns the house. She brought me here after she found me."

Six months. About when they'd lost Castiel in the reservoir to the Leviathans.

"_Found_ you?" Dean asked, incredulous.

Emmanuel nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "It's a rather... strange story. I doubt you would like it."

"Try me," Dean huffed, smiling bitterly. Oh, he wanted to hear this. Needed to. If this was Castiel - and from what the dude was saying, it seemed more and more the case - then Dean needed to know everything, because somehow, Cas had survived, and Dean had let him down. He hadn't searched long or hard enough, giving up after finding the drenched, dirty trench coat in the river and left him for dead.

"About six months ago," Emmanuel explained, "Daphne was hiking in near the river. I wandered across her path, drenched, confused, and... unclothed. I had no memory, and she said God wanted her to find me."

"And you believed her?" Dean raised an eyebrow, staring at the man in justified disbelief.

"I had no choice," he shrugged back. "Would you have refused the kindness of another in my situation?"

"No," Dean conceded, "I guess not. So if you don't remember who you were before, how'd you get saddled with a name like _'Emmanuel'_?"

Emmanuel sighed, raising an eyebrow accompanied by a small, sheepish smile. "BouncingBabyNames-dot-com," he said, and then turned to Cas.

Cas squirmed under the intense gaze. _So that's what that feels like, _he mused to himself. He could imagine what was going on in his head. Amnesia or no, it didn't seem like his thought process was any different from he remembered. His verbage, posture, attitude - it reminded him of the time before the Apocalypse, before humanity and feelings and moral standings; when his existence had been nothing but duty and the joy of his brothers brothers' presence and the warm light of Heaven.

"I can't take away all of your pain," Emmanuel said, not without sympathy, "but I can ease your suffering."

Cas frowned, eyes turning toward Dean automatically for assurance.

"I know that's not why you're here, but please. Let me help you."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Cas said mildly, but his protest fell upon deaf ears as the other man rose, kneeling in front of him and taking his hands.

He stared, transfixed by this other version of himself; the version of him that had come to be when the Apocalypse never came to pass. He was vital, whole, vibrant in ways that Cas barely remembered himself ever being, and it tore at his heart to think that _he could have been that man, if only..._

The bitter thought was aborted as he felt a tingling warmth pass through him, soothing the restless beast that rampaged within him, needing, demanding, and suddenly - it all seemed so pointless, so unnecessary, that he would have ever needed the drugs and the liquor at all. His head was clear, the pain gone, and he felt lighter than he had in years, and yet when Emmanuel pulled away, he felt the void within him frost over with jagged spears of ice as the long-lost Grace drew away with him, back whence it had come.

He felt the strong urge to reach out, cling to it, pull it back and claim it - but that wasn't his right. It would be cruel, and it would be wasted. He doubted, after so long cut off, mortal, that he would be able to even contain that power any longer. Likely, it would only destroy them both.

So he let it go.

Emmanuel was watching him again, and Dean, he realised, had a hand on his shoulder, giving him a concerned look.

He felt a tickle on his cheek, raising a hand to wipe at whatever had caused it, and was vaguely surprised to find that his face was wet.

"You okay, Cas?" Dean asked, all heart and genuine worry.

"M'fine," he lied. "Excuse me a minute."

The two men watched as Cas got up and hastily left the living room, letting himself out onto the back patio of the house and disappearing beyond the sliding glass door, out into the garden.

Dean sighed, hanging his head. He wasn't too worried about Cas wandering off, not really, but he'd go out in a minute and check on him in any case.

"What did you do to him?" he asked the other man softly. Instinctively, he knew that Emmanuel hadn't hurt Cas, but Cas wasn't injured, wasn't the reason they'd come here. He felt it was valid to ask.

"I cured him of his illness," Emmanuel said mildly, as though it were so self evident and why was Dean even asking? Dean had to smile a little at the response, the expression on the man's face that read 'you're so confusing, silly human'.

"You mean all that crap he put in his system, that's all gone?"

The other man just barely smiled, reflected more in his eyes, and yeah. Dean was convinced that this was _his _Cas, back from the dead (though missing a big chunk of his head, apparently), and Dean didn't know quite what to do with that. So, he smiled back.

He wanted to rail at him, knock him in the teeth, hug him, berate him, apologize to him and kick his ass all at the same time - but he couldn't. He couldn't do any of that, because he _needed _him, _Sam _needed him, and if Dean broke down whatever wall was keeping the angel's memories locked away, forced to face who he was and what he'd done - Dean wasn't sure how the dude'd react to that, and Dean really needed him in one piece.

"What is he?" Emmanuel asked, bringing Dean out of his bitter revelation. "Is he someone to me? It's... I mean, it's uncanny."

Dean just widened his smile at the man, though he didn't really feel it. "He's complicated."

He really didn't know how to answer that without screwing everything up.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Half an hour later, Dean found Cas out in the garden where he'd suspected he would, sitting on a stone bench, staring off into the newly blooming lilac bushes that hedged the yard. Given a certain beige trench coat, and Dean would have been reminded of any time he'd found the angel sitting in a park, contemplating the world at large as he had so many times before, hands clasped in front of him, a look of deep concentration on his face.

"Hey," he said as he took a seat beside the fallen angel. "You good?"

Cas sighed, bowing his head and running a hand through the back of his hair. He _felt _fantastic, better than he had in years, since before he'd fallen. But that emptiness persisted, the touch of his own Grace, unbroken and preserved in this time had only amplified the cold feeling within him. His chest felt tight, his eyes hot.

"It's... jarring," he admitted. "I hadn't expected that."

Dean nodded, putting an arm around his shoulders and giving him a light squeeze.

"I could feel it, his Grace- _my _Grace. I... came very close to doing something terrible."

Dean sighed, not sure what to say to that. "He's gonna come with us," he said instead, "back to Sioux Falls. He said he can help Sammy."

Cas nodded quietly. "Good."

"You gonna be okay in the car with him?"

Cas smirked at the hunter, shaking his head. "It's fine, Dean. I'll be fine."

Dean nodded, giving the fallen angel another light squeeze before awkwardly withdrawing his arm. God, he was terrible at this touchy feely shit.

"We're gonna crash here tonight," Dean explained, "then head out first thing. Drive right through and get back as quick as possible. I think," Dean sighed, taking a moment, "I think he's gonna come back here afterward."

Cas glanced up at his companion, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shook his head. "He's got a pretty okay life here, a wife... a nice house... I can't take that away from him."

"So you're not going to tell him anything?" Cas asked. "You're just going to let him continue not knowing who he is?"

The hunter thought about it in that context for a moment. Did he have the right to keep it from him? On that same note, did he have a right to take all of this away? Castiel had a right to be happy, just like anyone else, regardless of whether or not he was human. The guy had made some pretty big fucking mistakes, but hadn't they all? Who was he to judge? And anyway, he was helping people, still... he was off the God-juice and living a ... well, an _almost _normal life.

Dean had no business denying him that. If he didn't remember any of it, it was like it never happened, and holding his actions against him in light of that just wasn't fair.


	13. Chapter 13

Despite the still and quiet in the dark guest room of Emmanuel's house and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the fallen angel in the bed across from him, Dean just couldn't seem to get to sleep.

His mind raced with a hundred different thoughts, all of them disjointed and half-formed, bringing with them a maelström of emotions that refused to be sorted out. Anger, hope, guilt, joy, fear - all of these and more coalesced into a roiling cauldron of tension and worry that built pressure beneath the seat of his heart, threatening to explode at any moment.

Cas. _His _Cas. The Castiel that he had lost to Purgatory souls and ancient monsters, in this house, asleep in the room upstairs with his wife. _His wife_. Dean rolled over, staring at the wall, his mind a jumble of thoughts that bombarded him. He didn't know what he was feeling, what to think. And really, what was he thinking? Cas was sound asleep, a few feet away, sprawled across the other twin bed and all but dead to the world.

_His _Cas.

It was so confusing, feeling jealous of Daphne when he had Cas with him - and yet he didn't, because Cas was with this woman who had _found _him, taken him in and nursed him back to health. Daphne was a good woman, he could tell that much over dinner earlier, but there was something very strange about her. About both of them, like their relationship was professional, rather than intimate.

Daphne and Emmanuel.

With a sigh, Dean quietly rolled himself upright, glancing back to see the fallen angel still drooling into his pillow, blissfully unconscious. He had to smile a bit, because he didn't think he'd seen the guy look so peaceful in all the time he'd been in this timeline, even asleep.

What were they going to do if 'Emmanuel' ever did remember who he was? What would that mean for this Cas? Would Cas- _Castiel- _smite first and ask questions later?

Dean stood and quietly let himself out of the room. He wasn't sure what he was planning to do, but he was too restless to just lay there. So, making his way to the kitchen, he figured a glass of water was a good place to start. He'd figure the rest out from there.

To his surprise, when he passed through the living room, he found that he wasn't the only one awake.

The television was on in the dark room, the volume barely audible, playing some old Technicolor classic. Emmanuel sat on the sofa, staring blandly at the screen, looking more lost in thought than he was in the movie. How many times had Dean woken in some random motel room to find Cas just like that? Spaced out in front of the television screen, waiting for him and Sam to wake up. Because angels don't sleep.

Dean watched him in silence for a long moment, taking in the details of the other man sitting stiffly on the sofa. He wore grey silk pyjamas which, under other circumstances, would have made the hunter chuckle because... an angel in pyjamas. He didn't feel like laughing now, though. Emmanuel seemed troubled, maybe a little lost; the gentle smile and genuinely sympathetic look he wore so easily that afternoon was gone now, replaced by something that made him look vulnerable, scared even. It wasn't even remotely comical, and it made Dean's chest ache in a strange way.

He must have made some sound, because suddenly Emmanuel was staring back at him rather than watching the screen, his expression slightly startled, though his eyes were warm and curious.

"Hello, Dean," he greeted, his deep, sandpaper-rough voice cutting through the panic in Dean's mind at having been caught sneaking around the guy's house.

"Hey," Dean greeted back lamely. "I uh, I was just getting a glass of water."

Emmanuel smiled gently at him. "You have difficulty sleeping as well?"

Dean laughed softly at this. Trouble sleeping was an understatement. Usually, he was lucky to get four hours between nightmares of Hell and the general paranoia that came along with the hunting lifestyle. "I guess you could say that," he admitted.

The other man nodded, gesturing to the other half of the couch. "You can join me if you like. I'm afraid I don't have much aptitude for 'good television', however."

Dean smirked at the understatement, wondering if he got crap from Daphne for 'not understanding the reference'. He got his glass of water, then decided to take the guy up on his invitation, sitting down on the other end of the couch and trying to identify what was playing on the screen. It was an old film, starring Danny Kaye, Dean thought. He was pretty sure he'd seen this one; about the guy who lived in his daydreams to escape an ordinary life.

"Dean," Emmanuel asked him after a long, not quite awkward silence, "what do you know about me?"

Dean was jolted out of his reverie, staring at the other man and, crap. He really didn't want to answer that question.

He looked back toward the television, considering his words carefully. He felt those blue eyes on him, as though trying to pry his thoughts from him. It was unsettling, to say the least - even though this was Cas- _Castiel _( he had to make that distinction in his head, or having the two of them around was going to end up making him insane)- without his memories, he was pretty much a stranger to Dean. A stranger with the same mannerisms, social awkwardness and obliviousness to social cues as the angel he'd gotten to know over the last few years.

"Please," Emmanuel prompted when Dean remained silent for a long time, "you know something. Your companion..."

"It's complicated," Dean said finally, knowing it was a lame way to avoid a difficult conversation, "Look man, whatever I might know about you - trust me. You don't wanna know. What you've got here, this is..."

"False," Emmanuel said softly. "It's false. I feel as though I should be doing... something more. Something important. When I discovered that I could heal others with a touch... it _meant _something, like a... a higher calling. To be honest, I feel... restless here."

"What about your wife?" Dean asked quietly. "She seems nice, what if knowing might hurt her? What if you were some kind of badguy?"

Emmanuel contemplated this for a moment, staring at the screen as it flashed muted colours across the dark room. "I don't feel like a bad person," he said with a measure of certainty. "As for Daphne," he sighed, "she is a good woman. She is my wife for the sake of... appearances. I am told that it is odd for a man and a woman to share a home platonically."

Dean raised an eyebrow, turning bodily toward the other man. "So you two aren't... you haven't..." he gestured helplessly with his hands, not really sure what it was he was trying to ask.

"No," Emmanuel chuckled softly, "we aren't. We haven't."

For some reason, Dean felt as much relieved by this as he did saddened. Emmanuel was pretty much just hanging out here, not committed, just grateful to the woman who had saved him - just sharing space. But he was restless, whatever was repressed in his head just waiting to get out and screw his life over again.

"Maybe you should?" Dean suggested, giving just a hint of a lecherous smile. A selfish part of him considered it for a moment, considered telling him everything, bringing Castiel back to him somehow and pouring his heart out; taking all the chances he never took before, digging up all the feelings he'd buried over the years.

But there was still Cas to consider; the broken man in the other room who had been dropped into his life by who knew what or why, the guy he was just beginning to piece back together, who was just starting to resemble his old self again. Dean wasn't entirely sure what he felt for Cas, if it was the same that he felt for Castiel or not, but he did feel something. The whole situation was just so fucking irrational, it was hard to determine what the best for everyone involved might be.

Leaving Emmanuel in this apparently 'false' life would probably be the least painful, the least complicated - but he still needed to bring the guy back to Sioux Falls without somehow letting the truth slip out, without Emmanuel getting frustrated.

Cas made it difficult. With the fallen angel, there was no way to just roll it off. But then, if Cas _wasn't _there with him, would he feel the need to protect Emmanuel from the truth? Would he be as hesitant to keep his past tethered away from him? Dean wasn't so sure. The atrocities he had committed in the days leading up to his 'death' might have given him pause, at least until Sam was taken care of, but he felt that if it wasn't for the fallen angel, he'd probably tell Castiel everything, for better or for worse.

With Cas, however, it was impossible to deny there was some connection between them. If he'd known what they were walking into, that they'd find Castiel here, he could've worked out some cover story, but playing it off the cuff like this was difficult and awkward.

Emmanuel chuckled softly, a shy smile touching his lips as he turned away from the hunter. Dean's heart melted a little at that rare smile - one he had only seen a handful of times in all the years he'd known the angel. It was one of the things he had first come to love about Castiel; the awkward, shy, other-worldly being that offset the badass angel of the Lord, a stark duality between the two sides of the angel that held so much depth and mystery despite his ineptitude.

"We lack, uh, 'chemistry'," the other man finger-quoted, and Dean nearly lost it. "Besides," he continued, "I could already be married. Perhaps there's someone looking for me."

Maybe it was just Dean's imagination, but he could almost swear that the guy had given him a pointed look out of the corner of his eye.

"Maybe," he agreed hollowly, because really he didn't agree at all. He hadn't looked for him, hadn't really even tried.

Emmanuel sighed, picking at the hem of his grey t-shirt. "All this time I've only wondered, where did I come from? How did I end up in that river? Why do I have these unique gifts? And then you come along with Cas - who I can only assume is my brother, seeing as he and I share more than a 'passing' resemblance - and neither of you are willing to tell me anything about myself."

"Look, man," Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, "Like I said, it's com-"

"Complicated," Emmanuel finished, a note of disappointment underscoring his tone, "I know. But tell me one thing, Dean, and I'll go with you to South Dakota."

Shit. Dean closed his eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he held himself back from a biting retort. The guy was going to resort to ultimatums now, which was just a real dick move. Maybe it would be better to just let it go and tell him everything, tell him what he so obviously wanted to know, because he needed him to make Sammy better, and if he chose not to go because Dean was withholding information...

"You and I," Emmanuel began, seeming to choose his words very carefully, "we knew each other, didn't we. I... did something to you."

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. Did he remember something, or was he just working off a hunch? He wasn't sure if he should divulge anything, even a yes or a no.

"Yeah, we knew each other," he settled on finally.

"How did we meet?" Emmanuel asked, his eyes lighting up with ... something. It looked a lot like curiosity, but Dean sensed there was fear there, as well.

Dean shook his head, really not wanting to go there. Where would he even begin? The barn, when he'd stabbed the angel in the chest after unloading a few dozen rounds into him? Or at the gas station in the middle of nowhere, when Cas had tried to say 'hello' in his true voice and nearly caused him to go deaf instead? Hell was out of the question. There was no way he was going to bring up Perdition to the amnesic angel.

"I don't remember," Dean lied, not meeting the other man's eyes, "why?"

Emmanuel stared unblinking at him, seeming to sense that this wasn't the truth. It was unsettling, and Dean almost thought that the man's eyes were faintly glowing at the center of those blue orbs, humming with latent energy. "After I healed Cas," he said, pausing to search his thoughts, "it was strange. I felt... I don't really know how to explain it without sounding... _completely _insane."

Dean smirked a little because, yeah. He knew how that felt.

"I saw things, brief flashes I don't really understand," he sighed, pulling his gaze away from Dean finally. "I saw you surrounded by flame. You were wounded and I felt... terrified."

It was Dean's turn to stare now, because that sounded a lot like Hell. Like when Castiel had pulled him out of the pit. Dean found that he didn't _want _Castiel, or Emmanuel, or whoever he was now to remember it. If he remembered everything else, fine - but please, not Hell.

"Look, C- ... Emmanuel," Dean floundered, hoping to God the guy hadn't caught his near slip, "You're right. We should talk about this. But not now, not here, okay? I wanna help you, but I dunno how that's gonna mess with your head, and I hate to be a jackass about it, but my little brother is dying, and I'm pretty sure you're the only one who can fix him. So please, just ride this out with me, trust me, okay? And I _promise - _when this is over, I'll tell you everything."

Emmanuel regarded him in silence for a long moment before nodding hesitantly, turning back toward the television. "All right," he said softly, though his tone was somewhat begrudging, "I trust you, Dean. Thank you."

* * *

The drive back to South Dakota couldn't go fast enough.

Cas hadn't spoken more than a half dozen words all morning, and seemed almost to be avoiding Dean. Emmanuel was likewise reticent, watching his double the way a cat might watch a bird from a window. Dean could tell that he was just waiting for the opportunity to corner the fallen angel, to try and wheedle information out of him the way he had done to Dean the previous night.

The tension level within the hunter was reaching a boiling point, and he wasn't sure if they'd all make it back to Sioux Falls in one piece.

It was immensely awkward, to say the least, being stuck in a car with two versions of the same man - one of whom he'd kind of sort of gotten to, er, _know _a little better than the other. Which was weird, because Cas still felt like such a stranger - unpredictable, out of place in time; the product of his own alter-ego not being there when the falling angel had needed him most. Castiel, on the other hand, he _knew_. Knew his mannerisms, the way he reacted, and to a degree the way he thought.

They had just passed through the East end of Ogallala, Nebraska when Emmanuel finally broke the silence. "Did I do something... bad?"

Dean sighed in exasperation, glancing up into the rear-view mirror to see the other man staring dolefully out the window. He caught Cas watching him from the corner of his eye, one eyebrow cocked, almost daring him. He felt his ire rising at the smug smirk on the fallen angel's face as those blue eyes watched him expectantly, waiting for him to either spill it now or flounder with some lame, half-assed lie.

"No, Emmanuel," Dean said, emphasizing the name, "you didn't do anything bad. Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," the other man replied. "It's just... I feel as though I should feel guilt, as though I did something... unforgivable."

Cas smirked at this, and Dean felt like punching him. What the hell was _his _problem, anyway? Everything had been... stable, for lack of a better word, the night before. It seemed now as though the fallen angel was... what, jealous?

Wait, was Cas jealous of _himself_?

Dean snorted at the thought, not quite laughing because, honestly, it really wasn't that funny. Well, maybe it was a little.

Biting his tongue to keep himself from speaking his mind on the subject, he shoved a random tape in the stereo and cranked the volume, AC/DC's _Razor's Edge _smothering any possibility of further conversation for the time being.

It was going to be a long trip back.

* * *

(**AN: **So... I'm not sure how I feel about the way this chapter turned out. I wanted to convey the crap running through Dean's head, hence why it's all Dean-centric.)


	14. Chapter 14

Emmanuel couldn't explain his compulsion to trust this gruff man and his uncanny companion so implicitly. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. Dean Winchester he felt that he could trust with his life, if it came to it. The other, however - the one who bore his likeness - he felt uneasy in his presence.

It wasn't anything entirely tangible, nothing he could grasp and label and quantify. He had no identifiable reason to _not _trust Cas, but something about the man simply felt _wrong_. It was as though there was some tether between them, something that connected them, yet at the same time he had never sensed anyone who felt so completely _alien_ to him.

The wrongness that Cas exuded seemed to ripple outwards into the rest of the world. Since setting eyes upon the two men in the black car, everything seemed to spiral further and further away from anything that resembled _right_. When he first came face to face with the man down the block from Daphne's house, he felt as though he had been pressed against the pliable surface of the wall separating him from his memories of what happened, who he had been before being found in the woods, a wall that terrified him as much as it intrigued him, that had begun to turn brittle when he had touched the other man and dispelled his illness.

For months he had stayed with Daphne, who had helped him so much, assured him when the guilt and the fear of his unknown past became too much that he was all right, that he was a good person, that his path was open before him. He realised now how much he had been avoiding, things that lurked beneath the surface of his consciousness that he had subconsciously shoved down and refused to acknowledge, now realised by the sudden presence of these two men who seemed both strange and yet so familiar to him at the same time.

Images floated through his mind as they drove in silence, catching a pair of startling green eyes in the rear-view mirror every so often when he dared to look. Dean Winchester. The name filled him with an odd mix of hope and dread, comfort and guilt. He had done something unforgivable to this man. He was certain of this, despite the denial he'd been given when asked. Something to do with water and blood and darkness...

"You with me back there?"

Emmanuel blinked, turning his gaze away from the side window to meet Dean's gaze, the other man's expression a mixture of concern and wry humour. They were stopped in a gas station lot, his twin asleep in the front passenger seat.

"Yes, my apologies," he replied, "I was lost in thought. Have we arrived?"

"Nah," Dean shrugged, turning back and pulling the keys out of the ignition. "Still about two and a half hours out. Just stopping in for some road food. You, uh... you want anything?"

Dean was pretty sure the answer would be the same as it was the last time they'd stopped off, but it felt awkward not to offer.

"No, thank you," Emmanuel confirmed with a wan smile.

Dean nodded and climbed out of the car, heading into the Ma-and-Pa shop.

Emmanuel watched him disappear into the store, then turned his attention back to the remaining occupant on the front bench.

It truly was uncanny, how similar this man was to himself, and yet words like _brother _and _family _didn't quite seem to settle right in his mind when attempting to reconcile said similarities. A part of him - a part barely heard and somewhere between the wall and his waking consciousness - told him that this man was much closer than a simple familial bond, but it made no sense.

Gingerly, he reached out on instinct, placing his fore and middle finger against the sleeping man's temple with the lightest of touches, wondering (hoping) that he might see into the other's thoughts, the way he had caught fleeting glimpses when he had touched him before.

Closing his eyes, he caught chaotic flashes; a battle, violent and mindless creatures that only appeared human, Sam Winchester in a white suit, staring down at him with pity - Sam Winchester, broken and unconscious, his soul freshly restored and tearing his mind apart, Sam and Dean Winchester, beating the odds and averting the Apocalypse. The Winchesters, two impossible humans bucking their destiny, sacrificing themselves for one another.

Dean Winchester, staring him down in the old water-house, pleading, refusing to bow before him as Bobby had done, placating and frightened... frightened of him... but why?

_"Your new God. A better God."_

A hand grasped his wrist, jerking him out of the confusing reel of images conflicting in his mind, a pair of livid blue eyes that matched his own coming into sharp focus inches from his face, the near-mirror reflection of which set in hard, angry lines.

"Don't," Cas growled, his tone barely a harsh whisper, "you have no idea what you're digging into."

"Who are the Winchesters," Emmanuel asked, disregarding the threat in the other's words and the vice-like grip on his wrist, "I _know _them. I _know _you."

"Yeah," Cas huffed, releasing his wrist and sitting a little further away, his back resting against the passenger side door, watching his counterpart warily, "we established that already. You're not ready to know yet, Dean promised he would tell you after this was all done. Though, if I had my way, I would just as soon send you back to your lovely wife and be done with you."

Emmanuel frowned at this, sitting back in his seat, slightly dejected. "You... dislike me."

Cas raised an eyebrow at his younger self. It was almost disgusting, how naïve this version of himself was, and yet how wounded at the same time. The subtle change of one event, Dean's acceptance of his brother at that one crucial turning point and an insane plan that could have ended so bloody had resulted in two such vastly different versions of himself. It was, to say the least, off-putting, but did he truly dislike this divergent past version of himself, giving him those sad, reproachful eyes? No, he supposed he didn't. This version of him had never experienced the world the way he had, had never fallen so far as to become completely human, had never lost his wings and his Grace.

He had never loved, either - not the way Cas had learned to love. There was no doubt in his mind that Castiel _knew_ love, that he loved Dean. He himself had loved Dean long before his slow fall, before human emotions and sensations had swallowed him whole, drowning him in his own personal hell that had culminated in what had ultimately become his life in Chitaqua.

With a heavy sigh, Cas rolled his eyes and faced forward again, keeping his angelic, amnesic counterpart in the side mirror.

"I don't 'dislike' you," he murmured to the dash, "it's complicated."

Emmanuel's face scrunched up at the word, looking for all the world like a child that had just been told he couldn't have something that was greatly desired.

"I'm really beginning to dislike that word," Emmanuel grumbled back.

Cas smirked, shaking his head, effectively ending the conversation as Dean returned to the car and slid into behind the wheel and tossed a foil wrapped hot case burger into his companion's lap. As the hunter reached back over to pull the door closed, however, a pair of hands seemed to appear out of nowhere as he was bodily wrenched from the vehicle and tossed across the mostly empty lot.

"Shit!" Cas swore, tearing at his seatbelt and making to follow, only to have the passenger side door wrenched open behind him, cruel fingers twisting in his hair and yanking him out onto the concrete.

A wave of nausea hit Emmanuel as he watched the proceedings; there were four - no, five attackers in all, the gas station attendant had also joined the offensive - now surrounding the car. Dean was back on his feet, swinging wildly at the man who had pulled him from the car. Only, no. He only _looked _like a man. Beneath the twenty-something man in the denim jacket was something vile and mutilated, something that shifted just under the man's skin, smothering a wildly flickering light that radiated panic beneath the swirling black mire.

It took Dean a moment to regain his bearing after being torn out of the car and hitting the pavement, bewildered at the sudden change of scenery. It didn't take him long to figure out what he was dealing with, though - freaking' demons. It would figure, wouldn't it? No matter what world-shattering event was taking place, demons always found a way to figure into the equation.

He rolled, avoiding the heavy boot-clad foot aiming for his face as he groped under his jacket for Ruby's knife, his mind frantically circling thoughts of the hippie and the amnesic angel still in the car. He'd never really seen Cas in action in that bleak future. He knew the former angel could handle a gun, for the most part (though it didn't go unnoticed that his own future self had at one point had to help him with the safety), but there was no telling if Cas even knew there was one in the glove box or if he could get to it in time, for all the real good it would do him. And Castiel, or rather, Emmanuel... There was no telling how the guy would handle himself, if he remembered how to handle himself against a demon.

After a brief scuffle, Dean managed to gain the upper-hand and plunge the demon-killing blade into the evil son of a bitch's heart, ending the hell-spawn in a flash of crimson light and brimstone as the demon burned out of its host. His fears about the fallen angel were quickly assuaged as he scanned across the lot, spotting the former junkie ex-angel sparring off with a pair of demons of his own and kicking some serious ass.

Even without a weapon, after years of mortal exile in an apocalypse where he had all but rotted away in a haze of drugs and debauchery, Cas still had it where it counted. He moved like greased lightning - a fluid force of nature, grabbing the arm of the demon that had tried to lunge at him from behind and using the forward momentum to throw the freak over his shoulder and into the one he'd been squaring with in front of him. The former angel had a look of focused concentration that, if it wasn't for the black t-shirt, jeans and ratty old green army-surplus jacket, Dean would think that he was watching _his _Cas - the Cas of this time and this reality, going toe-to-toe unarmed against the demons.

Despite that the fallen angel seemed to be holding his own, Dean moved to assist, only to find himself hindered as an arm snaked around his neck, his attacker's free hand grabbing the wrist of the hand holding the blade and wrenching it painfully behind his back, forcing him to drop the weapon.

"Dean!" Cas called out, distracted long enough for the demons to subdue him with a heavy blow to the back of his head, taking him out of the equation.

"Cas! You sons of bitches, DON'T TOUCH HIM!" Dean struggle against the demon holding him, desperate to get to the fallen angel laying now unconscious at the feet of the other two hell-spawn. Belatedly, having been caught up in the fight, he remembered his other passenger, his eyes shooting toward the back seat of the Impala. His heart sank, realizing that car now stood empty, and he prayed to whoever was listening that the dude had picked up a clue and gotten the hell out of there, rather than what he feared might have happened.

It made sense in his mind - a healer pops up on the radar, and it's only natural the usual suspects would take an interest, not just hunters. If Crowley was clued in as to who Emmanuel really was, that was really just the icing on the fucking cake, wasn't it? It never just rains in the world of Dean Winchester.

"Where's the angel," a feminine voice purred in his ear, the arm wrapped around his neck pulling just a bit tighter.

"Screw yourself, bitch," Dean grit back at her, testing the hold on him as he clawed at her grip.

The three demons laughed darkly at this, the two hovering over Cas stooping to gather the unconscious man up, holding either arm between them.

"Speak up," the demon lilted, "or I'll order them to tear your little friend apart..."

_Cas_, Dean thought frantically, willing the fallen angel to come to as he fought his own captor. They were thoroughly screwed. And where the hell did Emmanuel get off to?! He hoped the son of a bitch had bailed, but a more selfish part of him inwardly cursed the bastard for ditching out.

"Pity," the lead demon sighed. "Guess we're just going to have to tak-"

The demon's words were abruptly cut off by a surprized shriek and a waft of brimstone, and suddenly Dean's arm was free, the pressure gone from his neck. Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, he spun to the side, keeping Cas in his peripheral as he positioned himself to take in whatever had saved his bacon, only to come face to face with the last being he'd expected.

"Meg," Dean hissed, now torn between getting to Cas and not wanting to turn his back on the two-faced demon that seemed to be embedded in his existence whether he wanted her there or not.

Meg simply gave him a smirk, flipping the knife so that the blade was in her hand, offering it back to the hunter. "You dropped this," she quipped.

A sudden shout from his right followed by three near-simultaneous thuds drew his attention back to the other two demons and the fallen angel, staring dumbfounded at what he saw there; the two demons who had been holding Cas lay on the ground, the eyes of their hosts burned out of their sockets. Cas lay crumpled between them, still out, but now groaning and shifting a bit, which was a good sign. But the biggest shock of all was that Emmanuel stood over the three forms, staring down at his hands in a maelstrom of confusion, horror and anguish.

"What's with the Double-Mint twins?" the demon prodded, curious. "You think a guy is dead, and not only does he prove you wrong, but he turns back up in duplicate? Man, do I envy _your_ life, Dean-o."

"Shut up," the hunter growled in response, of half a mind to turn around and plug the thorn in his side once and for all when suddenly the awkward situation took a turn for the worse.

"What," the still-standing angel breathed, no longer staring at his hands, but down at his double instead, horror taking the forefront as he turned his wide-eyed, searching stare on the hunter and the demon. "Dean?"

"Shit," the hunter sighed, slipping the knife back into his inside pocket and moving over to the visibly shaken man. This was totally uncharted territory; there was no way to know what was going on in the guy's head, but whatever it was couldn't be good, if the sheer panic radiating off of him in waves was any indicator. The worst case scenario played itself out in his mind a hundred times over as he crossed the dozen or so yards between them.

"Hey," he ventured once he got within a few feet of the angel, "you okay, Emmanuel?"

Emmanuel frowned, looking down his own likeness who was slowly regaining consciousness on the ground, nonplussed. "Dean," he said, this time with clarity as his penetrating gaze returned to Dean's own concerned one, "... I remember you."

Fuck. That was not how this was supposed to play out. It made explaining Cas a lot simpler, but that didn't mean it made it any easier. What the hell was he supposed to say, anyway? 'Oh, hey, glad you got your marbles back, Cas! Oh, by the way, that's you from a future that never happened. He's kinda screwed up, and we have no idea how the hell he got here, but hey, what the hell, you know? Oh, and yeah, we've totally been doing it for a couple of weeks now.' Yeah, no. That wasn't gonna cut it.

"Howdy, Clarence," Meg chipped in, having sauntered up to Dean's side in the interim. "You're looking pretty good, for a dead guy."

"Dean..." Cas groaned, complicating the matter even further.

The hunter held Castiel's lost blue eyes for a moment longer before kneeling down to help Cas up, bracing him as he got his wits about him. "Hey, easy... you're good. How's your head?"

Cas blinked to clear his vision, shaking his head to try and get the ringing in his ears to stop as the world swam back into focus. "D'you get the license off that truck?" he slurred, putting on a sloppy grin.

Dean let out a long sigh. Cas would be okay, which just left...

"I should go..." Castiel murmured awkwardly, his tone a bit terse.

"Cas, wait - Don't-" Dean stood quickly, trying to reach out to the angel before the space in which he was standing simply became vacant in a faint rustle of feathers. "Damn it!"

Dean spun, pacing a few feet to the gas station and driving his fist through one of the storefront windows, slicing a deep gash across his knuckles in reward for his stupidity. It was no less than he deserved - despite everything Castiel had done, he was the one who had dragged him down in both realities, had led him to fall in some fashion or another. But regardless of what he deserved, he needed Cas. Needed him to fix Sammy.

"Cas! Come back, please! Don't run on me now, man! I _need _you! Please..."

"That could have gone better," Meg stated uselessly.

"Shut the hell up!" Dean roared, reaching for the knife again and rounding on the demon. "Why the fuck are you here, anyway?!"

"Dean," Cas placated, placing a hand on the hunter's arm.

Dean shrugged him off, but didn't make a move on Meg. Despite the anguish of having lost their only hope - and by effect his best friend, _again_, the storm in his chest was beginning to subside. The demon, despite their past at odds with each other, had helped them, now for a second time. It didn't make up for it, but the last time she'd been on their side of the thin red line, she'd risked her own ass to buy them time. He figured he at least owed her the chance to explain what she was doing here.

Cas was glaring daggers at the demon, confused. The last time _he'd _seen Meg had been in the null-future 2013. They'd been ambushed on a lead to the Colt; Meg leading a pack of demons in Des Moines, descending on the group of hunters as they'd entered the old packaging plant where Dean had gotten a tip that the weapon was supposed to have been.

Out of seventeen men, nine made it out alive, Cas and Dean included, though not without injury. The Colt hadn't been there, and in addition to a myriad of the usual cuts and scrapes, Cas had been rewarded for his survival with a broken foot after jumping from a catwalk to take Meg down, the demon having backed Dean into a corner, weaponless. He knew that his Dean was just insouciant enough not to give a flying fuck if he died right there, so really a broken foot was its own reward in comparison to the reaming he got for his actions later.

Meg smirked at the pair of them, resting her hands akimbo on her hips, thumbs hooked into the pockets of her black jeans. "I caught wind of these asshats down the grapevine. They're working for Crowley, and the new King of Hell got interested in the mysterious healer that's popped up on the radar the last couple of months. Naturally, when I heard Crowley wanted him... well, let's just say I couldn't pass up an opportunity to throw a wrench in his gears," she grinned, looking oh-so-pleased with herself.

"That doesn't explain why you helped us," Cas said warily, and it made Dean's heart stutter just a bit, because the broken man looked and sounded so much like his old self just then that the hunter half expected him to just smite Meg where she stood.

Meg just raised an eyebrow at the fallen angel, glancing sidelong at Dean. "They run outta toner when they ran him through the copier?"

Dean let out an exasperated sigh, once again tucking the knife away. "It's a long story. He doesn't remember you helping us go after Crowley, he wasn't there," he explained, then turned to Cas. "Don't trust her an inch. She might, _might _be on our side now, but she's still a demon."

"Naturally," Cas replied with a shrug, eyeing Meg with wry contemplation. Obviously Dean didn't trust her, but for whatever reason, he tolerated her, so for the time being he would play along. That didn't mean he wouldn't rip her putrid, rotting heart out if she hurt Dean. Angel or no, his wrath was not something to be incurred lightly.

"So," the demon grinned tightly at the two men, clasping her hands in front of her with a sharp clap and rubbing them together eagerly, "what do we do now?"

"We," Dean said, gesturing between himself and Cas, "are out of here. You," he continued, pointing at Meg, "can fuck off."

Meg placed a hand over her heart, giving Dean a mocking, wounded pout. "Ouch, that hurts. And after all we've been through together..."

"Exactly," Dean countered, putting a hand on Cas's shoulder and steering him towards the Impala.

"Hell's eyes have seen angel-boy," Meg called after them, "both of them. When they can't find the real Castiel, who do you think Crowley's gonna send his dogs after, Dean-o?"

Dean stopped in his tracks, clenching his teeth in annoyance. Of course, she had a point - whether he wanted to admit it or not. With Castiel MIA again, now that Cas was out in the open - because in all likelihood there were more than just the four demons they'd fought - Crowley was bound to be curious about Cas.

"I'm guessing Clarence's stunt-double here ain't got no spidey-senses to tell you if you're bein' tailed," she continued smugly, "I mean, hell. He didn't pick up on me, and I've been ridin' your wake since the state line."

Dean sighed, glancing to Cas, who returned a dubious look. He knew she was baiting them. It was obvious. Meg had never been straight with them, there was obviously something to all this, it just wasn't clear _what_.

"Fine," he spat out finally, stalking around to the Impala's driver side and all but throwing himself into the seat, cramming the key into the ignition and cranking it, the engine roaring to life. He didn't like this. It reeked of trap, foul play - but a demon radar was just what they needed right now if what she was saying was true. And besides, they could stand there in the lot facing off with each other, but sooner or later some civilian or someone was going to wander in on the scene, see four dead bodies on the ground, and eventually the cops were going to get involved.

Cas paused, staring at the demon contemplatively for a long moment.

Meg looked him up and down, a wry smile on her lips. "Humanity suits you," she said playfully. "I'm just _dying _to hear your story."

"I don't kiss and tell," Cas shot back, forcing a grin, raising his eyebrows at her suggestively.

"Oh, I like you," she purred, stepping a bit closer, giving him a carnivorous smirk.

"Don't flatter yourself, sweetie," he rolled his eyes, turning his back to her and heading for the front passenger door, "I don't get it up for sulfur, either."

"Touche," the demon followed, climbing into the back of the car where not fifteen minutes ago an amnesic Castiel had sat before all hell broke loose.

Dean barely waited for Meg to settle before tearing out of the lot. Of all the possible scenarios, this was definitely top tier in terms of how things turned out. He needed to get back to Bobby's, regroup, and figure out a way to get Castiel to come back, because fuck if he wasn't Sam's last freaking hope, regardless of if he stayed or not.

* * *

(**AN: **Oh my word! I know I said I was gonna get this up a couple of days ago, but ugh. You know, life and stuff. Hopefully, however, we're back on the wagon and rolling again :) I have to admit, though, part of the hold up _this _time was because I was debating whether or not to throw Meg in there. I know a few of you had expressed an interest in seeing her interact with future Cas, but it took a bit of dicking around to get her in the story in a way that made sense. Like I said before, canon has no meaning here. Muahaha! There are Levis in the world, but they're not of any real concern to the plot in this fic, so screw 'em. You probably won't be seeing any, anyway.

So wow, a month-long break and we come back with this. Castiel remembers Dean, remembers who he is, and whew! What do you think his first real impression of Cas is, now that he realises (sorta) what's going on?

I sense things will be spiralling quickly out of control...


	15. Chapter 15

The atmosphere in the Impala during the two-hour drive back to Sioux Falls after the demon attack and Castiel's vanishing act was palpably uncomfortable. Dean was nearly frantic with his self-flagellation, inwardly cursing himself with every thought of the angel - which was constantly, considering he couldn't shake the feathery bastard from his mind.

This whole thing had turned into a huge freaking mess - Cas, Sam, Emmanuel/Castiel... if this story took one more twist, Dean was just going to eat his gun. He had enough shit to deal with as it was, and Castiel suddenly remembering and flying off to who-knows-where was the icing on the cake. Then there was Meg, of course, who had practically blackmailed her way into the car. Several times over the course of the trip he considered just handing Cas Ruby's knife and letting him use that instead of trying to accomplish the same effect with just his eyes.

He didn't know what kind of history the fallen angel had with the demon in that alternate timeline, but apparently it never had anything to do with the Pizza Man. Cas was a picture of pure loathing in the passenger seat, eyes never leaving the hell spawn for an instant the entire way.

"You fellas sure now how to make a gal feel welcome," she quipped about halfway to Sioux Falls.

Dean said nothing in response, gripping the wheel tighter as he sent out another mental signal to Castiel.

"I was under the impression you weren't," Cas offered in his stead, arching an eyebrow incredulously, then turning toward the hunter. "You're not seriously planning on taking her back to Bobby's, are you?"

Jaw clenching, Dean let out a long breath through his nose. In the face of everything that had just happened, he hadn't thought that far ahead. Bobby was going to blow sky-high if they dragged her in there without a damned good reason. Of course, he'd rather not drag her in there at all, but Dean got the feeling she was hiding something, that there was more to this than just helping them out of the kindness of her cold, shriveled black heart.

"What are you getting out of this, Meg?" Dean asked, breaking the terse, pensive silence. "Last I knew, demons don't just volunteer for civic duty."

Meg gave a long-suffering sigh, resting her head against the back rest and staring up at the upholstered ceiling. "I need protection. I don't exactly fit in with Crowley's new regime, so I figured sticking with you geniuses was my best chance at survival."

"And we should trust you why, exactly?" Cas scoffed indignantly. He wasn't buying it, not one bit, and he had no idea why Dean was abiding her presence. Obviously, something had changed between the demon and the Winchesters in the time since the Apocalypse that wasn't, but the fallen angel couldn't fathom what could possibly outweigh the demon's previous transgressions. She was directly responsible for the deaths of Joe and Ellen Harvelle, had been a deciple of Lucifer and Azazel's right-hand in the months leading up to the Morning Star's release from the cage. What she could have done to redeem herself even the slightest bit was beyond enigma.

"Lucifer and Yellow-eyes aren't pulling my strings anymore, handsome," she smirked, leaning her arms across the back of the bench and cocking her head smugly to one side. "I don't have any loyalties to the new King of Hell. I'm what you might call a 'free agent' now. I do what I want."

"I wasn't aware demons were given to excercise free will," Cas mused aloud.

"Yeah, well," Meg shrugged, "hanging around the Winchester's'll have that effect, ain't that right, Clarence?"

Dean huffed out a snort of reproval, but couldn't help the pang of guilt at the demon's words. It was true that Castiel had never considered free will before getting tangled up in their lives, had never questioned his orders before Dean had stepped in and turned his cloud upside down. The fact that this black-eyed bitch had gone and pointed it out just made it sting all the more. It wasn't that he regretted inspiring the angel to think for himself, to do what was right, but he felt as though it was on him for all of Castiel's blunders since, and for the depths to which he had fallen.

There wasn't time to dwell on that now, though; what mattered more was figuring out how to bring the angel back - no small feat considering their less-than-welcome guest - and get him to fix Sam. If he was lucky, maybe he'd even be able to fix things between him and Castiel, too.

* * *

"What the hell were you idjits thinkin' pickin' up a hitchhiker from Hell's highway!?" Bobby was nearly screaming into the receiver, knuckles white on the handset. "I sure as _hell _hope you don't think you're bringin' that demon bitch here."

"No, of course not, Bobby," Dean shouted back over the phone. "We didn't really have a choice. She's-"

"I don't give a damn if she'd given Christ a piggy-back to the crucifixion! She's a _demon, _Dean! You _gank _her, not give her a lift to the damned prom!" He couldn't believe the stupidity of that boy sometimes, the gray area he sometimes leapt blindly into before looking at the bigger picture. Now, Bobby knew that not _all _supernatural creatures were inherently _bad_, per se, but _demons _were another matter. They were the scum on the underbelly of the world, the self-serving personification of evil.

"I know that, damn it!" Dean seethed. "I don't like this any more than anyone else, but she's got leverage. Besides, she's on Crowley's bad side, same as us. You know, the enemy of my enemy and all that crap? I'm not talkin' about pickin' out curtains with the bitch, Bobby, I'm talkin' about a mutually beneficial compromise!"

Bobby leaned his elbows on the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down a bit before re-engaging the pig-headed young hunter.

"Look," the older man sighed, already regretting what he was about to say. "I had a friend used to have a cabin down by Lake Alvin, just this side of the Iowa state line. Should still be there, though it's been 'round ten years since anyone's been up there. I'll send the directions to your phone and you can hole her up there for the time bein'. Should still be plenty of salt and holy water down in the cellar. It's 'bout eighteen miles from here, so if anything happens with Sam you'll still be close enough to get here quick if need be."

Dean was silent for a long moment, relief and trepidation coursing through him in equal measures. "Thanks, Bobby. We're on I-90 now, heading that way. Just lemme know which exits to take."

The call disconnected after a few terse words of warning from the old hunter, then Bobby turned to his archaic computer and emailed the directions to the cabin to Dean's phone. He didn't like this, not one bit. He remembered full well everything that Meg had done over the years, what she'd done to Ellen and Jo, but he knew that once Dean was set on something he was damn near impossible to deter.

Trusting a demon was never a swell idea; Ruby and Crowley were more than enough reassurance of that, but the boy had sounded pretty sure there was no way out of this one other than through, so for now Bobby would just ride it out and hope the idjit had the sense to stick a knife in her eye if she showed the slightest hint of baring her teeth.

The news that Dean had found this Emmanuel fella, only to have the guy turn out to be the same angel that'd broke Sam's head to begin with was extraordinary, as far as Bobby thought. Coincidences were rare in their world, and hardly ever were they an omen for anything good. That Castiel had apparently lost his memory after getting torn up by Purgatory monsters was one thing, but now that the angel had disappeared again, leaving them back at square one.

With a sigh, and feeling a little foolish, Bobby clasped his hands in front of him on the desk, turning his eyes up to fix on the ceiling.

"Uh, I pray to the, uh, angel Castiel... um, I need to have a word, if'n you don't mind. Now I know last time we talked things weren't exactly copecetic, but uh, I think we got a couple of things needs sayin'... er, please. Or-"

The soft rustling of feathers to his right derailed his rambling prayer, drawing his attention to the lost-and-found angel in the black fleece jacket and khaki slacks.

"You can, uh, stop praying now. I heard you."

"Yeah," Bobby sighed in relief, keeping his eyes on the angel, "I can see that."

"Hello, Bobby," Castiel murmured, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, not quite looking at the old hunter let alone meeting his gaze. The last time he had seen Bobby Singer, Castiel had been at the absolute lowest point of his existence, having attempted to play God and nearly destroying himself in his folly. Even more strange, adding to the awkwardness, he had recovered his memories to find himself face to face with his own double, a Graceless carbon copy of himself in the company of Dean Winchester.

In his panic as the memories began to break through, overwhelming him, and the presence of the impossible creature he'd found in Dean's company, he'd freaked, as Dean would say, and ran like a coward. His first instinct had been one ingrained in all angels when faced with an impossible situation; return home. He had spread his wings, flying straight upward... and slamming into an invisible wall like a bird on a pane of glass, his passage to Heaven blocked. Of course it was appropriate, considering all he had done - the memory of his sins, his crimes, dissolving his confusion at finding himself locked out, separated from the Host. He had no right to return there. None at all.

"Hi," Bobby greeted back, turning slowly toward the angel with deliberate movements, as though Castiel were some easily frightened bird rather than an angel of the Lord. "If you heard me, then why the hell haven't you been answering your _other _calls?"

Castiel's face flushed as he turned away, studiously inspecting a knot in one of the wooden beams overhead. He had heard Dean's prayers, begging him to come back, promising to offer an explaination for his double, pleading with him to fix his brother. For the first time in all of creation, he simply did not know what to do with himself. He wanted to return, to beg Dean for forgiveness, to make this right - but the... the _thing _that Dean had with him, that Graceless doppleganger resonated _wrong _to all of his senses.

When Dean had knelt down to help the other man to his feet, it was all Castiel could do to keep himself from knocking him away from the hunter, to cry out "_NO!_" at the mere presence of that... that _abomination_.

"I'm... sorry, Bobby," he settled on. He wasn't really sure what he was apologizing for, whether it be for avoiding Dean, or for threatening them, or for not listening when his friends had begged him to stop before he got in over his head. All of it, probably.

Bobby rolled his eyes at the awkward celestial, huffing in frustration. "Look, boy," he remanded, holding up a hand when the angel's brow drew in, opening his mouth as though to correct the other man in his use of the term, "There's a lotta bad blood goin' around in all directions here, and I ain't sayin' your cooperation's gonna fix everything right off the bat, but you got an obligation to those boys to do right by 'em, and you can start by fixin' Sam."

Castiel held his eyes for a long moment, looking more small, young and frightened than Bobby thought an angel had any right to look before his expression simply turned sad, his eyes moving to the floor once again. "I don't know if I _can_, Bobby."

The old hunter scowled, rising out of his seat. "What do you mean, '_you don't know'!? _You mean to tell me you broke it and now you ain't even gonna _try _and fix it?"

The angel set his gaze on the other man again, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly to one side. "That is not what I said."

Bobby gave him an incredulous look, raising his hands in a frustrated, exaggerated shrug. "Well?"

"I'll try," Cas said in resignation, "but I don't think talking to Dean right now is a good idea."

"Hell with that," Bobby snorted. "Dean'll fry you in holy oil if you so much as look at Sam without his go-ahead."

Castiel sighed, his shoulder slumping in defeat. "You're right, of course. I'll... I should-"

"Oh for cryin' out loud," Bobby sighed. "Fine. Stay here and pout if you want till they get to where they're goin'. Should be there in about an hour. I sure hope you can get your head out of your feathered ass by then."

"Thank you, Bobby," Castiel said sincerely, giving Bobby those sad, earnest puppy-dog eyes.

Bobby shook his head, making his way to the kitchen. "Just try not to be too much of a pain in the ass."

* * *

"Come on, _really_?" Meg whined from the chair to which she was tied in the centre of a devil's trap in the cellar of the old, run-down cabin. "Seriously, did you have to tie me up, too?"

Dean and Cas shared a look across the closed trap door, silently agreeing that this was going to get annoying real quick even with the door and an entire floor between them and the demon.

"Why trust her?" Cas wondered bluntly. "She was one of _Lucifer's _lieutenants."

"I don't trust her, Cas," Dean sniped back, "Not as far as I could throw Bobby. But if she's right, if we've got demons tailing us..."

Cas sighed, rolling his eyes at the hunter. The logic was shaky at best, even after Dean had explained how their once-enemy-turned-reluctant-sort-of-ally had helped them take down Crowley's Alpha petting zoo. This whole thing was steadily turning into a steaming pile of crap, what with his divine counterpart returning and now babysitting one of the Apocolypse's biggest proponent all while Dean has a nervous breakdown over his brother's well-being and the angel's re-disappearance.

Things had been so nice over the last few weeks, the first time in his existence that he'd been more than just content, had actually been legitimately happy. He had finally known what it was like to be with Dean in a way that was something other than bitter, secretive and shameful (at least to Dean), and it had been more than he had expected it would be. After all the abuse, all of the heartache and dissociation he'd experienced in his own timeline, he was finally starting to feel a sense of peace with the world, with himself, that he had been given some kind of reward despite what he'd made of himself.

Then _Castiel _had resurfaced, and Cas couldn't mistake the look in Dean's eyes, the glimmer of pain that was just so obvious when he thought about the angel, or the fact that he had stayed up half the night with the amnesic 'Emmanuel' the night prior. He felt as though he had already lost, that he had been wrong to think that this was intended to be anything other than a punishment, further torment after he'd already lost everything he thought he could lose.

"I'm gonna get some air," Dean muttered, turning for the front door of the cabin, missing the broken look in the other man's eyes as he stepped out onto the rickety porch and headed for the Impala. If they were going to be here for a while waiting on Castiel to show up again, or until they decided to take care of Meg, then they needed to lay down the appropriate wards and sigils. Besides, the busy work would keep his mind off of the missing angel.

He wasn't sure what he was going to say to him when... _if _he showed back up. He knew he was gonna have to explain Cas, at some point, though he wasn't sure how much detail he should go into. He had no way of knowing how the angel would react if Dean told him what all they'd been up to since his fallen counterpart's sudden arrival, not to mention how Castiel would react simply to knowing who and _what _Cas really was.

Rummaging in the trunk, he produced a couple of cans of red spray-paint, grabbing his duffel bag for the basics in case they did stay for an extended period. A night or two, hopefully, at the most.

With a metallic clang, Dean let the hood drop, and nearly dropped everything in his arms as he looked up to find Castiel standing at the side of the car, looking sheepish, disturbed, scared and miserable, somehow all at the same time, still in his Emmanuel costume, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere but face to face with Dean Winchester.

"Cas?" he asked tentatively, trying not to let his hope strangle him.

"Hello, Dean."

* * *

**AN: **Moving right along... weeee! We're wingin' it from here, baby!

(I secretly love the little exchange between Castiel and Bobby...)


	16. Chapter 16

Dean stared agape at the angel in front of him, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind as he tried to sort out what he should say in this situation. He'd gone over snippets of this conversation for hours, since Castiel had zapped out at the gas station after dispatching those demons, but now that he was here, the moment having arrived, he just didn't know what to say to make this okay.

Castiel shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, intense blue eyes watching the hunter almost feral, taking in every minute detail. The all-powerful celestial being looked ready to bolt, head tilted forward, arms hanging listless at his sides, eyes large and expectant and so utterly terrified.

"Well," Dean started, grasping for anything to break the silence, "this is, uh... this is kinda fucked up, huh?"

The angel's eyebrows furrowed at the man's grin, raising his head and tilting it to the side, questioning.

Dean cleared his throat, crossing his arms defensively over his chest as he turned his eyes toward the ground, attempting to start over.

"Look, Cas," he began again, "about your look-a-like..."

"What is he," the angel interrupted impatiently, his attention now focused in ire on the most perturbing aspect of everything he'd woken to.

The hunter sighed, not really wanting to go over this particular odyssey again, but he owed Castiel some kind of explanation.

"Remember back in '09, back when me and Sam split for a while and you grabbed me from that motel room Zachariah had me cornered in?" Dean glanced up, meeting Castiel's narrowed eyes for a moment. "Remember how afterwards, I told you 'don't ever change'?"

"Of course," Castiel said matter-of-factly, "My memory is infallible."

Dean nodded. Right, he's an _angel, _you ass - of course he remembers.

"Zach sent me to this bizarro future, and... and everything was so fucked up. Sam'd said yes to Lucifer, I was... man, I was a complete dick, and you..." Dean glanced up again, wincing as he saw the dawning comprehension in those fathomless blue pools, "you were so far gone, broken, and it was my fault. I... I did that to you, Cas. You got kicked out of Heaven and I just..."

Words became too hard to form as he watched the sadness creep into Castiel's expression, the understanding of just what he'd seen in that distorted reflection of himself, the wrongness of it all. Castiel understood it now, why he'd felt so much unease from the other man; it was another possibility, what would have happened if they had been unsuccessful all those years ago, if Dean had lost his brother and spiraled into despair. Castiel had known even then that if it had come down to it, he would have stayed beside Dean as the hunter fought himself to self-destruction, if Sam had said yes, if the world had begun to crumble. He knew that if Heaven turned its back on humanity as the pyre burned in Lucifer's wake, he would have remained, his loyalty to Dean Winchester even at that time beginning to outweigh his loyalty to his brothers, to his home, everything he had known since his beginning.

Faced with it now, well. He was certainly glad that things had not turned out as they could have.

"Why?" Castiel asked after a long, pregnant silence. "Why is he here? How?"

Dean couldn't help but laugh quietly to himself at the honest, perfectly valid question. "We don't know," he replied. "He thinks it might've been Lucifer's last 'fuck you' after crushing the resistance - y'know, rubbing it in his face or something. He's so broken, Cas... and you- we thought you were..."

"I see," Castiel said calmly, not quite looking at Dean. He couldn't explain it, but he couldn't help feeling a little betrayed. Something in his vessel's chest felt cold and sharp, a pain like a vise squeezing his heart. It was... uncomfortable. He felt irrational, angry at his other self for having become so close to Dean, for having existed beside Dean in his own absence, for keeping secrets from himself. And then...

The angel narrowed his eyes, an odd, calculating expression on his face as he peered intently at the hunter. Dean suddenly felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. Was Castiel pissed at him now? Did he think they should have dumped Cas off somewhere, or maybe dealt with him in some way? Or-

"You kissed him," Castiel intoned flatly, his expression unmoved by the accusation.

"I- what?" Dean stammered, derailed. Crap.

"Last night, when you went to him in the garden," the angel explained. "You kissed him."

"Cas, look. I-"

"It's all right, Dean," Castiel cut him off shortly, no longer meeting his eyes, which, given the angel's history of shameless staring was a little off-putting. "It isn't my place to question, and it's not what you need me for. Your concern is Sam."

Ouch. Granted it had been the angel's fault Sam was so screwed up in the first place, but Dean suddenly felt like the world's biggest asshole having it laid out in front of him like that. It was true that Sam was his biggest concern, but Cas - _his _Cas - was alive and well, and he wanted to fix that, too. Except-

Dean sighed, overwhelmed by the situation. As much as he wanted to celebrate, to pull Castiel into a massive hug and not let go until the angel made him let go (God, Cas had made him so... _gay_), he was still responsible for the broken, fragile, _mortal _Cas that had been unceremoniously dumped on him for who fucking knew what reason, who had steadily been growing on him these last few weeks.

He really wondered sometimes if God just personally didn't like him.

"Yeah," Dean agreed after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

There seemed to be a shift between them at that, Castiel straightening up, finally meeting Dean's eyes - but there was something there that Dean didn't like reflected in them, something cold and distant that he hadn't seen in years. It was painful, essentially watching his friend shut down like this, avoiding the giant freaking neon polka-dotted disco elephant strutting between them, waving it's trunk in the air and spraying glitter confetti all over the place.

"Cas," he said thoughtfully, hope welling up within him again. It was a stupid thing, really, such a small gesture, but Dean had kept it all these months for a reason. He smiled at the angel's puzzled expression as he opened up the trunk once more, fishing around between the duffel bags until he found what he was searching for, dusting it off and presenting it to his friend.

Castiel regarded the bundle of beige fabric, the faint off-coloured stains of blood and ichor that hadn't completely washed out, feeling a well of emotion spring up within himself that made his eyes burn. He didn't deserve this, whatever it was that was wrapped up in this sentimental gesture. Why had Dean kept this nostalgic token, and why return it to him now? He reached out, running his fingers reverently over the cloth, but made no move to take it from the hunter.

Dean cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "I thought you might want it back at some point, maybe," he murmured, "and uh, if not, well... I was just gonna hold onto it until... fuck, I dunno."

The angel frowned at him, tilting his head to the side. He could sense the conflicting emotions in the hunter, affection and betrayal practically screaming in his face in equal measures, both directed at Castiel. It was confusing how humans could be so dichotomous.

He could see the bright edges of Dean's aura begin to shrink with disappointment and rejection as he tried to resolve the gesture, and finally he reached out, taking the bundle from the other man and shaking it out. Dean smiled inwardly as the angel pulled the coat on, thinking that despite the absence of the suit and tie, he looked almost like himself.

"Oh," the hunter exclaimed, smiling as he reached forward and gently mussed Castiel's hair. He might have let his hand linger just a little too long, cataloguing the difference between Cas's thick, shaggy, coarse locks and Castiel's, which was essentially the same, but with a subtle static charge that prickled not unpleasantly against Dean's skin. The angel in question blinked confusedly at him, all wide eyes and questioning head-tilt.

"You look like you again," Dean explained, a small smile touching his lips. For a moment he almost forgot about all the bullshit in his life, just soaking up the presence of the angel and everything was as right as his world could get. Like all things in his life, though, it was short-lived as the weight of the world came crashing back down on his soul.

Castiel seemed to sense the shift in his mood, averting his eyes to the ground again. "Call me when you are ready to go to Sam," he murmured quietly, "I will do all that I can."

Before Dean could stop him, Castiel was gone again.

"Son of a bitch."

* * *

Cas leaned against the window sill, watching through a crack in the moth-eaten curtain as Dean and his angelic counterpart faced off with each other. That bottomless, dark pit had opened up in his soul again, slowly expanding and bubbling with bitterness and jealousy. It was becoming clear that his being sent here was no reward, no chance at redemption; it was a punishment, soul torment to have that taste again of what could have been, and then have it wrenched away by the one person he despised the most.

_You're a fool and a coward, _he thought, feeling the acid in the back of his throat. _Why should you be saved? Why would anyone offer you redemption? You knew when you arrived here that this was not for you._

The irritating voice in the back of his mind sounded so much like his old naïve angelic self that it made him feel physically ill.

He sighed and, unable to watch Dean interact with a self that wasn't him, turned away from the window and made his way to the trap door.

Cas descended the stairs, eyes meeting with those of the demon tied to the chair, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the bottom railing of the wooden staircase. Meg lifted her smirking brown eyes, one eyebrow arched, cupid-bow lips curled up at the ends in a witchy smile.

"Boyfriend troubles?" She asked, tilting her head to the side almost mockingly.

Cas snorted in annoyance, looking away from the demon. "Why are you really here? I don't believe your crap about 'the enemy of my enemy'."

Meg smiled, slow and surprisingly sincere. "You're a lot different than your doppelgänger. _He _actually _likes _me."

"You are one of Lucifer's servants," he replied flatly, "one of his most loyal. "

The demon chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Lucifer, Yellow-Eyes, they're long gone, right along with any purpose I might've had. After my last run-in with Crowley, I'm pretty much done with demons. Do you think demons have souls, Clarence?"

Cas gave her an odd look, considering the question. He'd wondered the same of angels in the past, wondering what might happen to him once his mortal body finally did give out. He tried not to acknowledge the niggling fear that if he didn't just simply cease to exist, his soul would end up roasting in the pits of Hell for eternity, or until he eventually became one of the loathsome serpents that he had fought alongside the Winchesters.

He shuddered, forcing the thought from his mind - it was his greatest fear, the only reason other than Dean that he hadn't consciously ended his own existence after coming to Chitaqua, after his world fell apart. But surely fallen angels would not be permitted in Heaven once they died. Right?

"Thing is," Meg continued after a short silence from the ex-angel, "I had a bit of an epiphany; me and the Winchesters, we danced a brief duet a couple years back, shut down an operation Crowley had goin' to open up Purgatory. See, after your boys shut down the Apocalypse, Crowley took over downstairs and started hunting down all of us 'Lucifer Loyalists'. 'Course I was saving my own ass then, just like I am now, but who's really keeping score?"

Cas shook his head, his thoughts drifting to what was going on between Dean and his other self upstairs. Part of him wanted to go and interrupt, to be selfish and call Dean back to himself while the rational part of him quietly began to speak up, insisting that he'd interfered enough in this timeline.

"I think your ringer out there developed a little crush on me along the way," Meg chirruped, smirking slyly up at the brooding man. "Never would've guessed he was one hell of a kisser; that Pizza Man must've been some teacher."

The former angel raised an eyebrow, staring at the demon, equally horrified and confused. "What 'Pizza Man'?"

Meg laughed softly, sounding genuinely amused rather than mocking, which ramped up the strangeness factor. "Guess you had a different teacher," she mused, giving him a thoughtful look. "Did wonder-boy upstairs teach you?"

"Shut up," Cas snapped, pushing off the railing and staring down at her.

Meg grinned, giving a little shrug. "I'm the one tied up, here. Just trying to have a decent conversation."

Cas rolled his eyes, turning his back on Meg and heading back upstairs.

* * *

"All right, thanks, Bobby. I'll call you in the morning when we get on the road."

Dean sighed, hanging up the phone and stuffing it back in his jacket pocket. He was really looking forward to this shit storm being over so that all he had to worry about was the fate of the world and his Cas vs Castiel dilemma. He'd call Castiel back in the morning to head up to the hospital; it was late now and he was physically and emotionally exausted. He hadn't wanted to leave Sam for another day, now that Castiel was back on board, but Bobby had convinced him that dealing with this crap was better done during business hours.

With a sigh, he crossed the cabin's main room to where Cas sat on the bed, reading some thick old hardbound tome and sat on the bed beside him, staring at the fallen angel until those blue eyes finally tore away from the page to lock onto his own.

"What's up, Cas," he asked, hating how touchy-feely he sounded. He did _not _want to have a chick flick moment here, but at the same time whatever was eating Cas was starting to bleed through and get to Dean, too, the former angel having all but given him the silent treatment.

Cas folded a bookmark between the pages of the book, holding it in his lap as he leaned his head back against the rough-hewn wooden headboard. "What do you mean?"

Dean huffed, shaking his head at the fact the guy was actually trying to play dumb with him. "What's with the long silences and the dirty looks all day?"

Blue eyes disappeared beneath shaggy dark-brown hair as Cas let out a bitter chuckle, staring down at his hands as he idly picked at his thumbnail. The lack of response was starting to piss Dean off, and he was about to tell the former angel so when Cas finally spoke.

"You've got your Castiel back now," he said quietly, and the strain in his tone made Dean's throat feel a bit too tight. What the hell? Were both of them going to play this card?

"Cas," Dean sighed, pulling himself up to sit shoulder to shoulder with the other man in the bed.

"You yourself said that I don't belong here," the fallen angel continued, "and you were right. Just because I was thrown here for, as far as I can tell, no God damned reason, doesn't mean I have any right to you or anything else in this timeline. I'm damaged, Dean. I'm fucked up and none of this belongs to me."

"Don't twist my words against me," Dean scowled. "That was weeks ago. Things've uh, sorta changed since then."

The former angel smirked lazily at this, shaking his head. "Nothing's changed, Dean. I'm still out of place. The only thing different now from when I first arrived here is you accepting your Big Gay Love for an angel of the Lord."

"That's bullshit," Dean retorted, moving his hand to rest over Cas' and twining there fingers together. "You've changed, too. You're not as fucked up as you were in that camp."

Cas did laugh at this, banging his head back against the headboard, snorting to catch his breath between soft peals.

Dean scowled at the former angel petulantly. "What the hell's so funny?"

The other man grinned at him. "Dean, I'm no less fucked up than I was when you dropped in on my temporal neighborhood, I'm just sober and... I gotta say, it really _sucks_. Thanks to '_Emmanuel',_ it's not as bad as it has been, but it still sucks. I would still swallow a handful of Valium and wash it down with gut rot if you weren't standing in the way."

"And I'd punch you in the teeth if I caught you," Dean huffed, rubbing his thumb against Cas' in an unconscious gesture of affection.

Cas sighed, staring down at their linked hands with slight bemusement. "This is straying awfully close to 'chick flick' territory, isn't it, Dean?"

Dean snorted, giving the former angel an irritated look. "Maybe I actually _care_."

The look on Cas' face slowly fell into something sad and heartbreaking and Dean found himself having to look away before he got pulled down with it.

"You're going to have to choose, Dean," the fallen angel said after a long moment of silence, "and I think I already know how this story ends."

Dean moved his eyes to the other man, frowning deeply. "What the hell does that mean?"

Cas chuckled sadly, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "I'm the jealous type. Always have been, from the moment I pulled your thick-headed ass out of Perdition."

"So what you're saying is-"

"What I'm saying, Dean," Cas cut in, glancing aside at the hunter, "is that you can't have both. Neither of us would abide it. You might think that Castiel is passive, will do whatever you ask because that's what he's always done, but if he realises that he could have you? Well, that's another story. He'll fight for you, once he knows you want him as much as he doesn't realise he wants you, and I'll be in the way."

Dean frowned, contemplating this quietly. He had to choose, then? It didn't seem fair. He already had whatever this was going with Cas, and it wasn't exactly rainbows and kittens, white picket fences and apple pie, but it was all right. It felt comfortable, even if he did secretly want to smother the smarmy little shit with a pillow some times. He still wasn't sure about his feelings toward the fallen angel, but he felt that given enough time, if they didn't eventually tear each other apart, he could grow to genuinely love him.

Castiel, on the other hand - they had been through so much crap together. Cas was practically a stranger. He'd only known Cas a little over a year on the other side of the mobius strip before the thread had split, but _his _Cas he knew inside out. He knew he loved Cas. He'd known it for a couple of years now, but he'd always pushed it away, Castiel's emotional mask inpenetrable, Dean's own insecurities about his personal identity shaking apart any courage he might have gathered to take that leap. Castiel had betrayed him, and that hurt like a motherfucker, but he knew he'd already forgiven the angel in his heart and that nothing had really changed regarding how he felt towards him.

"You don't have to decide right now," Cas continued, smirking, "but you have to figure it out soon, otherwise you might be stuck with me whether you want me or not."

"I don't know if I can," Dean croaked out, surprised at how wrecked he sounded, how close to sobbing in frustration at it all.

Cas sighed, scooting a little closer and resting his head on Dean's shoulder. "It's fine, Dean. If you're worried about hurting me, don't. I've already been through this part, remember? I survived it. I'm used to you-"

Dean had heard enough, his heart breaking with each word that came out of the former angel's mouth. He twisted, letting go of Cas' hand so that he could roll onto his side, grabbing a fistfull of dark hair at the back of Cas' head and crushing their lips together, nudging his knee between the fallen angel's legs.

Cas froze, eyes wide as a muffled sound of mingled shock and pain escaped him. He thought he could taste blood in his mouth as their teeth collided, Dean pulling his hair just a little too hard. _Yes_. This was more like _his _Dean, and he relished it. It was rough, angry, and he could _feel._ He imagined the scent of cheap whiskey and blood, sweet and biting and coppery. He moaned into the hunter's mouth as they slid together, desperate and needy and both oh so beautifully broken.

Shirts disappeared, zippers scraped and buttons flew as they groped and pulled at each other, raw energy spurring them into frenzy, primal and instinctive. Cas didn't complain when his wrists were securely pinned to the mattress above his head, the two of them interlocked in every way imaginable and he savoured it, wanting to remember every second of this before it was gone.

* * *

Neither of them slept, just laying wrapped in each other as the twilight hours ticked away toward dawn. Dean lay on his back, arms wrapped around the fallen angel, and he thought that this was the most intimate they had been with each other since all of this started, since he held the broken man as he wept after that first time in the panic room. Neither of them spoke a word, though there were a hundred things on Dean's mind that he wanted to say.

He didn't want to choose, but he had a feeling if it came down to it, despite what Cas said, he would choose the broken one. It wasn't a matter of pity, or guilt because of what they'd started, but because he could see so much of himself reflected in the former angel. He was human, comfortable in his own skin in ways that Castiel wasn't. There was still something mysterious, slightly other-worldly about him even without his wings, but Dean felt as though he could touch him without getting burned, whereas every time he thought of doing the same things with Castiel he felt like Icarus, flying too close to the sun.

He wanted to say that he'd made his choice, as much as it hurt him - as much as it might crush Castiel - but the words wouldn't come, bogged down by uncertainty and his own insecurities.

So instead, he said "I'm not him."

Cas shifted, turning slightly to lean up on his elbow, searching Dean's troubled face silently.

"I'm not the Dean that messed you up. I'm not the one that... that _hurt_ you."

"I know."

Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat, trying to remain in control. Stupid emotions. "I'm not going to."

Silence from the fallen angel, blue eyes boring into his soul.

"I-"

Dean's words were stolen away with his breath as Cas leaned in, kissing him slowly, softly - not the porno kiss of angry sex, but the intimate, soul-tasting kind of kiss that didn't come with any further physical expectations.

"Get some rest, Dean," Cas whispered in his ear as he pulled away, then settled in once more, head against Dean's shoulder and one arm draped possessively over his bare chest.

Dean closed his eyes with a sigh, not sure if he felt contented or not, but eventually fell into a light, disturbed sleep.

* * *

**AN: **I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. That got way feelsier than I had meant it to get, and especially after such a long hiatus (which I also apologize profusely for - I sort of had a case of creative constipation for a bit, but it seems to have worked itself out).

Review! I love reviews. They let me know if I'm entertaining you as much as I'm entertaining myself ;)


	17. Chapter 17

**(AN: **So before we get started here, I have to put out a quick warning for the first part of this chapter containing crude imagery of Hell and graphic descriptions of torture. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. ._.)

* * *

One common misconception about Hell in canonical Judeo-Christian mythology is that it exists as an infinite lake or pit of liquid flame, eternally burning the toasted souls of the damned. Truth is, well... there _is _a lake of fire, but that's just one small piece of real estate in the universally endless expanse of Hell. Artistic mediums such as Dante Alighieri and Hieronymus Bosch have managed to get closer than most in describing it; Hell is a messy, layered demesne of pain, suffering, anguish and denial.

There are innumerable layers to Gehenna, beginning in Limbo - which is not so different from the mortal plane; a miserable, gray reflection of the living world reserved for those who have wallowed shamelessly in misery and sloth, neither wicked enough for Hell nor pure enough for Heaven. There is a level for each of the seven sins, varying in severity, the punishments fitting the crimes, so to speak, grotesque and horrifying; gluttons force-fed their vices, the sadistically and cruelly lustful literally fucked-to-death, over and over, the greedy drowned and buried in their desires, to name a few.

There are special hells, as well; Perdition being the most common after the clichéd flaming lake. This is where the images of demons flaying the souls of the damned come from, of medieval torture. Bosch's rendition of Heaven, Hell and the Garden of Earthly Delights comes closest to defining it, residing above a pit of open flame, the souls of those who bartered away their afterlife for false love, fame and material goods whipped from one torment to the next.

There are dozens, hundreds more, Ma'wa, Hades, Naraka, Sheol, Adlivun, Jigoku, Gathas... Hells of every imagining and nightmare, antediluvian horrors derived from ten thousand years of human culture and fear and evil, and Lucifer's cage rests squarely at the border of each of them.

Sam Winchester has seen them all, has been privy to each and every undeserved torture and flagellation. He has been mercilessly subjected to torments long forgotten, agonies yet to be discovered, flayed, burned, pulled apart and made whole again by the fallen angel that fate and prophecy had ordained to lay claim on his body and his mind.

Such as now, as Sam lay prone upon the hard surface of the hospital bed, flames shooting up the walls as searing hooks tore into his skin, the Devil's hands sliding between flesh and muscle, tearing through his navel with dagger-like fingers and separating his skin from sinew as he grinned and leered, drinking in the young man's screams greedily as he peeled away bruised strips, exposing unprotected musculature to the burning, sulfuric air, reaching between ropes of muscle to pull out bone, cracking and splintering into soft tissue and he _screams_.

He chokes on the fragments of his teeth as they are shattered in his jaw, slicing his throat, hot blood searing as it bubbles to his lips, drowning him. Lucifer laughs, coddles him, comforts him, makes him whole again, and then rips out his spine as a forked tongue slides against the shell of his ear, soothing words and broken promises hissing serpentine from the archangel's lips.

Lucifer summons his brother, convinces him that he's free, waits until tears of relief flood Sam's eyes Dean is here, Dean has come to save him, has found a way to rescue him from Hell... then ripping his brother's skin off in front of him with one swift, sharp pull, Dean's bones combusting and burning him from the inside, his eyes melting in his skull as he shrieks in agony - he could never imagine his big brother making those sounds and they _destroy _him, erode his soul and break him until there's nothing left but a screaming shell in the shape of a man who was once Sam Winchester... and still the Devil makes him whole.

Hands would sometimes grab him, and he would fight - _(noneofthisisrealthisisreal thisisn'thappeningthisisn'treal thisishappeningthisisreal GodDeanDadanyone PLEASESOMEONEHELPME!) _but salvation would never come. This was punishment for his sacrifice, for not playing the puppet. No one was going to save him, no one could. He was alone, Satan's chew-toy until the end of eternity, destined for madness and darkness.

This was his reward for putting out the fires that would have burned the world.

* * *

There was only one way that this would play out, one way that it could. It was going to be messy; some toes were going to get stepped on, but it had to happen this way, or no one was going to make it through this. Cas had convinced himself of this as he lay wrapped around the hunter, unable to sleep and watching the long shadows crawl slowly across the dusty wooden floor as the sun rose. He wasn't ready to leave this just yet; wasn't prepared to let the void inside him well up again until it was done. The hunter was his until he wasn't, and for now he was content to cling - until the time inevitably came that he would have to give him up.

The fallen angel knew it wouldn't be too long now, knew that these moments were ticking away, and he would give up gracefully. He'd been here before, albeit under different circumstances - he wasn't supposed to be here, after all - and it would hurt, he could still pretend he was okay. Dean may be his now, but he _belonged _to Castiel, to the still-angel version of himself that belonged to this world, this time.

He resolved all of this in his head and he had a feeling that Castiel had already made connections in his own feather-filled brain, that there would come a time when the angel would either fight or flee. Cas was broken; Castiel was breaking. One of them should come out of this in one piece, for Dean's sake. The hunter didn't deserve to have to deal with _two _douchebag broken angels.

It wasn't surprising when Cas shifted his eyes to the soft sound of feathered wings and the whiff of ozone that heralded the presence of the Host, and saw the trench coat-clad near mirror-image of himself standing in the corner near the trap door, watching the couple as they slept in the sunk-in camp bed. Yeah, he could definitely see now why Dean had always yelled at him for staring at the hunter while he slept.

Castiel looked pissed, his jaw squared, eyes hard and narrowed, brow a straight line. Ever the narcissist, the angel had taken the time to replace the old black suit and blue tie, the same as ever down to the most minute of details. "I need to speak with you."

Cas smiled at his counterpart, a ridiculous surge of pride running through him, seeing the jealousy in the angel's eyes as he pulled himself around the hunter a little tighter. Jealousy was good; it would make Castiel all the more triumphant now that he was aware of his own desires. "I know you do," Cas sighed, the smile fading slightly.

Dean grunted, his eyebrows pulling together as he roused slightly to the sound of voices and the movement of the man beside him. Castiel strode forward, placing his fingers against the hunter's temple and Dean immediately settled back into a deep sleep.

"Well, I suppose that's one way to get some privacy," Cas quipped, pulling himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He took his time locating his discarded clothing, pulling everything back on at a leisurely pace. It was almost ridiculous how Castiel turned his eyes away, face flushed as though he was a stranger. Jimmy Novak was long, long gone. Apparently his angelic twin hadn't yet come to terms that the body he inhabited now _belonged _to him, whether he liked it or not. "You want to talk about Dean."

Castiel returned his gaze to his fallen self, eyes shocked and lips pulled in a straight line. "No, I-" it was actually kind of cute, Cas mused. Three and a half years on the planet and the angel still couldn't tell a lie.

"Save it," Cas smirked. "I know you. Kind of hard not to." Castiel just stared at him, not certain what to say or do. The image disturbed him immensely but it was inescapable; this corrupted remnant of Grace bonded with flesh was not in Dean Winchester's best interests. "Don't play stupid, Castiel - it doesn't suit you. You love him as much as I do."

"This is not your place or time," Castiel murmured, blatantly ignoring what his mortal self had accused.

"Yeah, I've been getting that a lot," Cas chuckled. "You're avoiding the obvious, but that's fine. It's not the biggest ticket on the menu at the moment."

The angel couldn't help being a little fascinated by the mannerisms and speech patterns the angel-turned-human displayed. His stance, the defiant lift of his chin as he spoke, even his cadence bore similarities to Dean's own behaviours, though with a fluid grace to his movements that carried through from his carefully maintained control as an angel. His voice had a soft lilt to it that surprised Castiel, sounding somewhere between his own rough, stoic tone and that of his vessel - loose and languid and with the Winchesters' sharp tongue.

Castiel had no illusions that this was something he could still become.

"You're fucking ridiculous, you know that?" Cas offered casually and Castiel bristled. "Why the hell would you do that to Sam? To _Dean_?"

The angel could see the anger in the other man's eyes, and it was justified. Perhaps he had underestimated his other self, misjudged him. He felt the love and loyalty radiating from him, his devotion unchanged - perhaps even more powerful than Castiel's own for the Righteous Man.

"I was... not thinking clearly," he offered lamely. His guilt for hurting Sam was immeasurable, unforgivable. "It was borne of desperation, I only meant-"

Castiel wasn't expecting the fallen remnant to lunge forward and strike him, hadn't braced himself and the impact actually knocked him back a step. Graceless though he was, this man was still powerful, if only slightly more than completely human, dead remnants of Grace clinging to him like scant cobwebs.

"You fucking moron," Cas seethed. "Why should I trust you with them, with Dean?"

The angel stared, uncomprehending. He knew that he deserved the reprimand - that it was coming from his own self was nothing short of ironic. "What do you mean..."

"I mean why should I let you have Dean," the other said simply, no hint of challenge - merely an honest question. "How am I to know that you won't harm him again?"

Castiel winced at this, hanging his head in shame. "I've already lost everything," he murmured. "I am barred from Heaven. My Grace waning. _If _I am able to heal Sam, it may well be my final miracle."

Cas stared mutely, watching his past self. It made sense, considering everything he had done. Castiel was lucky he wasn't hunted and put to death for his crimes. "You'll need Dean to catch you," he said finally. He saw the wince from the angel and knew what he was thinking; that he didn't deserve Dean, wasn't worthy of his concern. "He loves you," he continued, and Castiel jerked as though the words had flayed him like a whip. "He has for some time, though he would never have admitted it."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, his jaw squaring. It was cruel; he realised now what his bond with Dean was, that it was more than simply the traces of Grace in Dean's soul, the imprint of Dean's soul on his Grace. He understood now more than ever that it went much deeper than that, that his affections had grown significantly in the time he had known the man. He had already fallen for Dean once, and he would gladly do so again.

And now here was this _creature_ bearing his own face who had taken Dean's affection for himself, become his _lover, _and now he was telling him that Dean Winchester loved _him_. "I should smite you where you stand."

The fallen angel laughed softly, shaking his head. "You won't need to. Wouldn't be a good idea. You would only be harming Dean; I'm already dead."

Castiel tipped his head to the side, trying to determine what the words meant.

"I meant that literally, not in some emo, sobbing on the floor metaphorical sense. I died in 2014. Lucifer broke my neck, ruptured my organs. I was dead. It was pretty awful. My entire future is dead, Castiel. I should have gone with it, but here I am - by whatever cruel twist of fate. Whether by Lucifer or by God or simply a stray lapse in the fabric between our times, I ended up here and I still have no idea why, but this isn't mine. It's yours, and I've no right to it, no matter how much I may want it."

"Dean would not have me now," Castiel retorted, tone low and petulant, "not after all I've done, not now that he has you."

Cas gave an exaggerated sigh of frustration. "You are so unbelievably thick, I can't believe I was ever you. I have an idea how this will all work out, but I need you to pay attention."

* * *

**(2nd AN: **I know this one was kind of short, but these two pieces didn't fit in with the next part very well, so this is what you get for now :P Hoping to have chapter 18 posted by the end of the week - it's already mapped out and it's gonna get messy [as if it wasn't a complete disaster of plot and angst already] God, you guys... thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter - you seriously have no idea how much you all made my day. It's reviews like those that really make writing worth it, makes me feel like I'm weaving a good, suspenseful, heart-wrenching tale. I love you all so much [hearts] bless your souls.)


	18. Author's Note

So, I've determined that I really, really need to stop making promises about updates lol.

I haven't forgotten about this, I promise, I've just been having a really rough month or so. My apartment burned down in August and I lost my computer with all my backups and drafts and I haven't had time since to sit down and do much of anything, let alone update this.. my brain's pretty fried from the stress and I still haven't moved into a new place/replaced all my furniture and crap *le sigh* at least I had insurance, or I'd have been completely boned. I really miss my cat though ._.

I don't know how long it's going to take to get things settled down again so that I can continue writing, but it will happen eventually, so thank you all for being so patient and riding it out with me :)


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